LINE-O'-VERSE 
OR  TWO 


:.    L.    T 


UC-NRLF 


MS    D7b 


i. 


A  Line  -  o'-  Verse  or  Two 


, Line -o'- Verse  or  1 


wo 


By 


Bert  Leston  Taylor 


The  Reilly  &  Britton  Co. 

Chicago 


Copyright,  191 1 

by 
The  Reilly  &  Britton  Co. 


NOTE 

PR  the  privilege  of  reprinting  the  rimes  gath 
ered  here  I  am  indebted  to  the  courtesy  of 
the  Chicago  Tribune  and  Puck,  in  whose  pages 
most  of  them  first  appeared.  "The  Lay  of  St. 
Ambrose"  is  new. 

One  reason  for  rounding  up  this  fugitive 
verse  and  prisoning  it  between  covers  was  this: 
Frequently — more  or  less — I  receive  a  request 
for  a  copy  of  this  jingle  or  that,  and  it  is  easier 
to  mention  a  publishing  house  than  to  search 
through  ancient  and  dusty  files. 

The  other  reason  was  that   I   wanted   to. 

B.  L.  T. 


281317 


TO  MY  READERS 

J\fOT  merely  of  this  book, — but  a  larger  company, 
•*•  *  with  whom,  through  the  medium  of  the  Chicago 
Tribune,  I  have  been  on  very  pleasant  terms  for 
several  years, — this  handful  of  rime  is  joyously 
dedicated. 


THE  LAY  OF  ST.  AMBROSE 


"And  hard  by  doth  dwell,  in  St.  Catherine's  cell, 
Ambrose,  the  anchorite  old  and  grey." 

— THE  LAY  OF  ST.  NICHOLAS. 


AMBROSE  the  anchorite  old  and  grey 
Larruped  himself  in  his  lonely  cell, 
And  many  a  welt  on  his  pious  pelt 

The  scourge  evoked  as  it  rose  and  fell. 

For  hours  together  the  flagellant  leather 

Went  whacketty- whack  with  his  groans  of  pain; 
And  the  lay-brothers  said,  with  a  wag  of  the  head, 
"Ambrose  has  been  at  the  bottle  again." 

And  such,  in  sooth,  was  the  sober  truth; 

For  the  single  fault  of  this  saintly  soul 
Was  a  desert  thirst  for  the  cup  accurst, — 

A  quenchless  love  for  the  Flowing  Bowl. 

When  he  woke  at  morn  with  a  head  forlorn 
And  a  taste  like  a  last-year  swallow's  nest, 

He  would  kneel  and  pray,  then  rise  and  flay 
His  sinful  body  like  all  possessed. 

Frequently  tempted,  he  fell  from  grace, 
And  as  often  he  found  the  devil  to  pay; 

But  by  diligent  scourging  and  diligent  purging 
He  managed  to  keep  Old  Nick  at  bay. 


This  was  the  plight  of  our  anchorite, — 
An  endless  penance  condemned  to  dree, — 

When  it  chanced  one  day  there  came  his  way 
A  Mystical  Book  with  a  golden  Key. 

This  Mystical  Book  was  a  guide  to  health, 
That  none  might  follow  and  go  astray; 

While  a  turn  of  the  Key  unlocked  the  wealth 
That  all  unknown  in  the  Scriptures  lay. 

Disease  is  sin,  the  Book  defined; 

Sickness  is  error  to  which  men  cling; 
Pain  is  merely  a  state  of  mind, 

And  matter  a  non-existent  thing. 

If  a  tooth  should  ache,  or  a  leg  should  break, 
You  simply  "affirm"  and  it's  sound  again. 

Cut  and  contusion  are  only  delusion, 
And  indigestion  a  fancied  pain. 

For  pain  is  naught  if  you  "hold  a  thought," 

Fevers  fly  at  your  simple  say; 
You  have  but  to  affirm,  and  every  germ 

Will  fold  up  its  tent  and  steal  away. 

From  matin  gong  to  even-song 

Ambrose  pondered  this  mystic  lore, 

Till  what  had  seemed  fiction  took  on  a  conviction 
That  words  had  never  possessed  before. 


10 


"If  pain,"  quoth  he,  "is  a  state  of  mind, 
If  a  rough  hair  shirt  to  silk  is  kin, — 
If  these  things  are  error,  pray  where's  the  terror 
In  scourging  and  purging  oneself  of  sin? 

"It  certainly  seemeth  good  to  me, 

By  and  large,  in  part  and  in  whole. 
I'll  put  it  in  practice  and  find  if  it  fact  is, 
Or  only  a  mystical  rigmarole." 

The  very  next  night  our  anchorite 

Of  the  Flowing  Bowl  drank  long  and  deep. 

He  argued  this  wise:  "New  Thought  applies 
No  fitter  to  lamb  than  it  does  to  sheep." 

When  he  woke  at  morn  with  a  head  forlorn 
And  a  taste  akin  to  a  parrot's  cage, 

He  knelt  and  prayed,  then  up  and  flayed 
His  sinful  flesh  in  a  righteous  rage. 

Whacketty- whack  on  breast  and  back, 

Whacketty- whack,  before,  behind; 
But  he  held  the  thought  as  he  laid  it  on, 
"Pain  is  merely  a  state  of  mind." 

Whacketty-whack  on  breast  and  back, 

Whacketty- whack  on  calf  and  shin; 
And  the  lay-brothers  said,  with  a  wag  of  the  head, 
"Ain't  he  the  glutton  for  discipline!" 


ii 


Now  every  night  our  anchorite 

Was  exceedingly  tight  when  he  went  to  bed. 
The  scourge  that  once  pained  him  no  longer  re 
strained  him, 

Nor  even  the  fear  of  an  aching  head. 

For  he  woke  at  morn  with  a  pate  as  clear 
As  the  silvery  chime  of  the  matin  bell; 

And  without  any  jogging  he  fell  to  his  flogging, 
And  larruped  himself  in  his  lonely  cell. 

But  the  leather  had  lost  its  power  to  sting; 

To  pangs  of  the  flesh  he  was  now  immune; 
His  rough  hair  shirt  no  longer  hurt, 

Nor  the  pebbles  he  wore  in  his  wooden  shoon. 

When    conscience    was    troubled    he    cheerfully 
doubled 

His  matinal  dose  of  discipline; — 
A  deuce  of  a  scourging,  sufficient  for  purging 

The  Devil  himself  of  original  sin. 

Whacketty-whack  on  breast  and  back, 
Whacketty- whack  from  morn  to  noon; 

Whacketty-whacketty-whacketty-whack! — 
Till  the  abbey  rang  with  the  dismal  tune. 

Deacon  and  prior,  lay-brother  and  friar 
Exclaimed  at  these  whoppings  spectacular; 

And  even  the  Abbot  remarked  that  the  habit 
Of  scourging  oneself  might  be  carried  too  far. 


12 


"My  son,"  said  he,  "I  am  pleased  to  see 

Such  penance  as  never  was  known  before; 
But  you  raise  such  a  racket  in  dusting  your  jacket, 
The  noise  is  becoming  a  bit  of  a  bore. 

"How  would  it  do  if  you  whaled  yourself 

From  eight  to  ten  or  from  one  to  three? 
Or  if  'More'  is  your  motto,  pray  hire  a  grotto; 
I  know  of  one  you  can  have  rent  free." 

Ambrose  the  anchorite  bowed  his  head, 
And  girded  his  loins  and  went  away. 

He  rented  a  cavern  not  far  from  a  tavern, 
And  tippled  by  night  and  scourged  by  day. 

The  more  the  penance  the  more  the  sin, 

The  more  he  whopped  him  the  more  he  drank; 

Till  his  hair  fell  out  and  his  cheeks  fell  in, 
And  his  corpulent  figure  grew  long  and  lank. 

At  Whitsuntide  he  up  and  died, 

While  flaying  himself  for  his  final  spree. 

And  who  shall  say  whether  'twas  liquor  or  leather 
That  hurried  him  into  eternity? 

They  made  him  a  saint,  as  well  they  might, 
And  gave  him  a  beautiful  aureole. 

And — somehow  or  other,  this  circle  of  light 
Suggests  the  rim  of  the  Flowing  Bowl. 


TO  A  TALL  SPRUCE 

PRIDE  of  the  forest  primeval, 
Peer  of  the  glorious  pine, 
Doomed  to  an  end  that  is  evil, 
Fearful  the  fate  that  is  thine! 

Peer  of  the  glorious  pine, 
Now  the  landlooker  has  found  you, 
Fearful  the  fate  that  is  thine — 
Fate  of  the  spruces  around  you. 

Now  the  landlooker  has  found  you, 
Stripped  of  your  beautiful  plume — 
Fate  of  the  spruces  around  you — 
Swiftly  you'll  draw  to  your  doom. 

Stripped  of  your  beautiful  plume, 
Bzzng!  into  logs  they  will  whip  you. 
Swiftly  you'll  draw  to  your  doom; 
To  the  pulp  mill  they  will  ship  you. 

Bzzng!  into  logs  they  will  whip  you, 
Lumbermen  greedy  for  gold. 
To  the  pulp  mill  they  will  ship  you. 
Hearken,  there's  worse  to  be  told! 

Lumbermen  greedy  for  gold 
Over  your  ruins  will  caper. 
Hearken,  there's  worse  to  be  told: 
You  will  be  made  into  paper! 


Over  your  ruins  will  caper 
Murderous  shavers  and  hooks. 
You  will  be  made  into  paper! 
You  will  be  made  into  books! 

Murderous  shavers  and  hooks 
Swiftly  your  pride  will  diminish. 
You  will  be  made  into  books! 
Horrible,  horrible  finish! 

Swiftly  your  pride  will  diminish. 
You  will  become  a  romance! 
Horrible,  horrible  finish! 
Fate  has  no  sadder  mischance. 

You  will  become  a  romance, 

Filled  with  "Gadzooks!"  and  "Have  at  you!' 

Fate  has  no  sadder  mischance; 

It  would  wring  tears  from  a  statue. 

Filled  with  "Gadzooks!"  and  "Have  at  you!' 
You  may  become  a  "Lazarre" — 
(It  would  wring  tears  from  a  statue) — 
"Graustark,"  "Stovepipe  of  Navarre." 

You  may  become  a  "Lazarre"; 
Fate  has  still  worse  it  can  turn  on — 
"Graustark,"  "Stovepipe  of  Navarre," 
Even  a  "Dorothy  Vernon"! 

Fate  has  still  worse  it  can  turn  on — 
Lower  you  cannot  descend; 
Even  a  "Dorothy  Vernon"! — 
That  is  the  limit — the  end. 


Lower  you  cannot  descend. 
Doomed  to  an  end  that  is  evil, 
That  is  the  limit — the  end! 
Pride  of  the  forest  primeval 


16 


IN   THE  LAMPLIGHT 

THE  dinner  done,  the  lamp  is  lit, 
And  in  its  mellow  glow  we  sit 
And  talk  of  matters,  grave  and  gay, 
That  went  to  make  another  day. 
Comes  Little  One,  a  book  in  hand, 
With  this  request,  nay,  this  command — 
(For  who'd  gainsay  the  little  sprite) — 
"Please — will  you  read  to  me  to-night?" 

Read  to  you,  Little  One?     Why,  yes. 
What  shall  it  be  to-night?     You  guess 
You'd  like  to  hear  about  the  Bears — 
Their  bowls  of  porridge,  beds  and  chairs? 
Well,  that  you  shall.  .  .  .  There!  that  tale's  done ! 
And  now — you'd  like  another  one? 
To-morrow  evening,  Curly  Head. 
It's  "hass-pass  seven."     Off  to  bed! 

So  each  night  another  story: 
Wicked  dwarfs  and  giants  gory; 
Dragons  fierce  and  princes  daring, 
Forth  to  fame  and  fortune  faring; 
Wandering  tots,  with  leaves  for  bed; 
Houses  made  of  gingerbread; 
Witches  bad  and  fairies  good, 
And  all  the  wonders  of  the  wood. 

"I  like  the  witches  best,"  says  she 
Who  nightly  nestles  on  my  knee; 


And  why  by  them  she  sets  such  store, 
Psychologists  may  puzzle  o'er. 
Her  likes  are  mine,  and  I  agree 
With  all  that  she  confides  to  me. 
And  thus  we  travel,  hand  in  hand, 
The  storied  roads  of  Fairyland. 

Ah,  Little  One,  when  years  have  fled, 
And  left  their  silver  on  my  head, 
And  when  the  dimming  eyes  of  age 
With  difficulty  scan  the  page, 
Perhaps  /'//  turn  the  tables  then; 
Perhaps  /'//  put  the  question,  when 
I  borrow  of  your  better  sight — 
"Please — will  you  read  to  me  to-night?" 


18 


THE  BREAKFAST  FOOD   FAMILY 

JOHN  SPRATT  will  eat  no  fat, 
Nor  will  he  touch  the  lean; 
He  scorns  to  eat  of  any  meat, 
He  lives  upon  Foodine. 

But  Mrs.  Spratt  will  none  of  that, 

Foodine  she  cannot  eat; 
Her  special  wish  is  for  a  dish 

Of  Expurgated  Wheat. 

To  William  Spratt  that  food  is  flat 

On  which  his  mater  dotes. 
His  favorite  feed — his  special  need — 

Is  Eata  Heapa  Oats. 

But  sister  Lil  can't  see  how  Will 
Can  touch  such  tasteless  food. 

As  breakfast  fare  it  can't  compare, 
She  says,  with  Shredded  Wood. 

Now,  none  of  these  Leander  please, 

He  feeds  upon  Bath  Mitts. 
While  sister  Jane  improves  her  brain 

With  Cero-Grapo-Grits. 

Lycurgus  votes  for  Father's  Oats; 

Proggine  appeals  to  May; 
The  junior  John  subsists  upon 

Uneeda  Bayla  Hay. 


Corrected  Wheat  for  little  Pete; 

Flaked  Pine  for  Dot;  while  "Bub" 
The  infant  Spratt  is  waxing  fat 

On  Battle  Creek  Near-Grub. 


20 


"TREASURE   ISLAND" 

COMES  little  lady,  a  book  in  hand, 
A  light  in  her  eyes  that  I  understand, 
And  her  cheeks  aglow  from  the  faery  breeze 
That  sweeps  across  the  uncharted  seas. 
She  gives  me  the  book,  and  her  word  of  praise 
A  ton  of  critical  thought  outweighs. 
"I've  finished  it,  daddie!" — a  sigh  thereat. 
"Are  there  any  more  books  in  the  world  like  that?" 

No,  little  lady.     I  grieve  to  say 

That  of  all  the  books  in  the  world  to-day 

There's  not  another  that's  quite  the  same 

As  this  magic  book  with  the  magic  name. 

Volumes  there  be  that  are  pure  delight, 

Ancient  and  yellowed  or  new  and  bright; 

But — little  and  thin,  or  big  and  fat — 

There  are  no  more  books  in  the  world  like  that. 

And  what,  little  lady,  would  I  not  give 

For  the  wonderful  world  in  which  you  live ! 

What  have  I  garnered  one-half  as  true 

As  the  tales  Titania  whispers  you? 

Ah,  late  we  learn  that  the  only  truth 

Was  that  which  we  found  in  the  Book  of  Youth. 

Profitless  others,  and  stale,  and  flat ; — 

There  are  no  more  books  in  the  world  like  that. 


21 


A   BALLADE   OF  SPRING'S   UNREST 

Up  IN  the  woodland  where  Spring 
Comes  as  a  laggard,  the  breeze 
Whispers  the  pines  that  the  King, 
Fallen,  has  yielded  the  keys 
To  his  White  Palace  and  flees 
Northward  o'er  mountain  and  dale. 
Speed  then  the  hour  that  frees! 
Ho,  for  the  pack  and  the  trail! 

Northward  my  fancy  takes  wing, 
Restless  am  I,  ill  at  ease. 
Pleasures  the  city  can  bring 
Lose  now  their  power  to  please. 
Barren,  all  barren,  are  these, 
Town  life's  a  tedious  tale; 
That  cup  is  drained  to  the  lees — 
Ho,  for  the  pack  and  the  trail! 

Ho,  for  the  morning  I  sling 
Pack  at  my  back,  and  with  knees 
Brushing  a  thoroughfare,  fling 
Into  the  green  mysteries: 
One  with  the  birds  and  the  bees, 
One  with  the  squirrel  and  quail, 
Night,  and  the  stream's  melodies — 
Ho,  for  the  pack  and  the  trail! 


22 


L1  Envoi 

Pictures  and  music  and  teas, 
Theaters — books  even — stale. 
Ho,  for  the  smell  of  the  trees! 
Ho,  for  the  pack  and  the  trail! 


WHY? 

WHY,  when  the  sun  is  gold, 
The  weather  fine, 
The  air  (this  phrase  is  old) 
Like  Gascon  wine; — 

Why,  when  the  leaves  are  red, 

And  yellow,  too, 
And  when  (as  has  been  said) 

The  skies  are  blue; — 

Why,  when  all  things  promote 
One's  peace  and  joy, — 

A  joy  that  is  (to  quote) 
Without  alloy; — 

Why,  when  a  man's  well  off, 

Happy  and  gay, 
Why  must  he  go  play  golf 

And  spoil  his  day! 


24 


THE    RIME   OF  THE  CLARK  STREET 
CABLE 

(Now  happily  extinct.) 

TWAS  in  a  vault  beneath  the  street, 
In  the  trench  of  the  traction  rope, 
That  I  found  a  guy  with  a  fishy  eye 
And  a  think  tank  filled  with  dope. 

His  hair  was  matted,  his  face  was  black, 

And  matted  and  black  was  he; 
And  I  heard  this  wight  in  the  vault  recite, 
"In  a  singular  minor  key": 

"Oh,  I  am  the  guy  with  the  fishy  eye 

And  the  think  tank  filled  with  dope. 
My  work  is  to  watch  the  beautiful  botch 
That's  known  as  the  Clark  Street  Rope. 

'I  pipes  my  eye  as  the  rope  goes  by 

For  every  danger  spot. 
If  I  spies  one  out  I  gives  a  shout, 
And  we  puts  in  another  knot. 

Them  knots  is  all  like  brothers  to  me, 

And  I  loves  'em,  one  and  all." 
The  muddy  guy  with  the  fishy  eye 

A  muddy  tear  let  fall. 

There  goes  a  knot  we  tied  last  week, 
There's  one  what  we  tied  to-day; 

And  there's  a  patch  was  hard  to  reach, 
And  caused  six  hours'  delay. 


"Two  hundred  seventy-nine,  all  told, 

And  I  knows  their  history; 
And  I'm  most  attached  to  a  break  we  patched 
In  the  winter  of  'eighty-three. 

"For  every  time  that  knot  comes  round 

It  sings  out,  'Howdy,  Bill! 
We'll  walk  'em  home  to-night,  old  man, 
From  here  to  the  Ferris  Wheel. 

"  'We'll  walk  'em  in  the  rush  hours,  Bill, 

A  swearing  company, 

As  we've  walked  'em,  Bill,  since  I  was  tied, 
In  the  winter  of  'eighty-three.'  " 

The  muddy  guy  with  the  fishy  eye 

Let  fall  another  tear. 
"Them  knots  is  wife  and  child  to  me; 
I've  known  'em  forty  year. 

"For  I  am  the  guy  with  the  fishy  eye 

And  the  think  tank  filled  with  dope, 
Whose  work  is  to  watch  the  lovely  botch 
That's  known  as  the  Clark  Street  Rope." 


26 


MISS   LEGION 

SHE  is  hotfoot  after  Cultyure, 
She  pursues  it  with  a  club. 
She  breathes  a  heavy  atmosphere 
Of  literary  flub. 
No  literary  shrine  so  far 
But  she  is  there  to  kneel; 

But— 

Her  favorite  line  of  reading 
Is  O.  Meredith's  "Lucille." 

Of  course  she's  up  on  pictures — 
Passes  for  a  connoisseur. 
On  free  days  at  the  Institute 
You'll  always  notice  her. 
She  qualifies  approval 
Of  a  Titian  or  Corot; 

But— 

She  throws  a  fit  of  rapture 
When  she  comes  to  Bouguereau. 

And  when  you  talk  of  music, 

She  is  Music's  devotee. 

She  will  tell  you  that  Beethoven 

Always  makes  her  wish  to  pray; 

And  "dear  old  Bach!"     His  very  name 

She  says,  her  ear  enchants; 

But — 

Her  favorite  piece  is  Weber's 
'Invitation  to  the  Dance." 


27 


A   BALLADE   OF   DEATH   AND   TIME 

I  HOLD  it  truth  with  him  who  sweetly  sings — 
The  weekly  music  of  the  London  Sphere — 
That  deathless  tomes  the  living  present  brings: 
Great  literature  is  with  us  year  on  year. 
Books  of  the  mighty  dead,  whom  men  revere, 
Remind  me  I  can  make  my  books  sublime. 
But  prithee,  bay  my  brow  while  I  am  here: 
Why  do  we  always  wait  for  Death  and  Time? 

Shakespeare,  great  spirit,  beat  his  mighty  wings, 
As  I  beat  mine,  for  the  occasion  near. 
He  knew,  as  I,  the  worth  of  present  things: 
Great  literature  is  with  us  year  on  year. 
Methinks  I  meet  across  the  gulf  his  clear 
And  tranquil  eye;  his  calm  reflections  chime 
With  mine:  "Why  do  we  at  the  present  fleer? 
Why  do  we  always  wait  for  Death  and  Time?" 

The  reading  world  with  acclamation  rings 
For  my  last  book.     It  led  the  list  at  Weir, 
Altoona,  Rahway,  Painted  Post,  Hot  Springs: 
Great  literature  is  with  us  year  on  year. 
The  Bookman  gives  me  a  vociferous  cheer. 
Howells  approves!     I  can  no  higher  climb. 
Bring  then  the  laurel,  crown  my  bright  career. 
Why  do  we  always  wait  for  Death  and  Time? 


28 


U  Envoi 

Critics,  who  past  ward,  ever  past  ward  peer, 
Great  literature  is  with  us  year  on  year. 
Trumpet  my  fame  while  I  am  in  my  prime. 
Why  do  we  always  wait  for  Death  and  Time? 


29 


THE    KAISER'S    FAREWELL    TO 
PRINCE    HENRY 

A  UFWIEDERSEHEN,  brother  mine! 
**•     Farewells  will  soon  be  kissed; 
And  ere  you  leave  to  breast  the  brine 
Give  me  once  more  your  fist; 

That  mailed  fist,  clenched  high  in  air 

On  many  a  foreign  shore, 
Enforcing  coaling  stations  where 

No  stations  were  before; 

That  fist,  which  weaker  nations  view 

As  if  'twere  Michael's  own, 
And  which  appals  the  heathen  who 

Bow  down  to  wood  and  stone. 

But  this  trip  no  brass  knuckles.    Glove 

That  heavy  mailed  hand; 
Your  mission  now  is  one  of  Love 

And  Peace — you  understand. 

All  that's  American  you'll  praise; 

The  Yank  can  do  no  wrong. 
To  use  his  own  expressive  phrase, 

Just  "jolly  him  along." 

Express  surprise  to  find,  the  more 

Of  Roosevelt  you  see, 
How  much  I  am  like  Theodore, 

And  Theodore  like  me. 


I  am,  in  fact,  (this  might  not  be 

A  bad  thing  to  suggest,) 
The  Theodore  of  the  East,  and  he 

The  William  of  the  West. 

And,  should  you  get  a  chance,  find  out- 

If  anybody  knows — 
Exactly  what  it's  all  about, 

That  Doctrine  of  Monroe's. 

That's  entre  nous.     My  present  plan 

You  know  as  well  as  I: 
Be  just  as  Yankee  as  you  can; 

If  needs  be,  eat  some  pie. 

Cut  out  the  'kraut,  cut  out  Rhine  wine, 

Cut  out  the  Schutzenfest, 
The  Sangerbund,  the  Turnverein, 

The  Kommers,  and  the  rest. 

And  if  some  fool  society 
"Die  Wacht  am  Rhein"  should  sing, 
You  sing  "My  Country,  'Tis  of  Thee"— 
The  tune's  "God  Save  the  King." 

To  our  own  kindred  in  that  land 
There's  not  much  you  need  tell. 

Just  tell  them  that  you  saw  me,  and 
That  I  was  looking  well. 


TO   LILLIAN   RUSSELL 

(A  reminiscence  of  18 — .) 

DEAR  Lillian!     (The  "dear"  one  risks; 
"Miss  Russell"  were  a  bit  austerer) — 
Do  you  remember  Mr.  Fiske's 
Dramatic  Mirror 

Back  when — ?  (But  we'll  not  count  the  years; 
The  way  they've  sped  is  most  surprising.) 
You  were  a  trifle  in  arrears 
For  advertising. 

I  brought  the  bill  to  your  address; 
I  was  the  Mirror's  bill  collector — 
In  Thespian  haunts  a  more  or  less 
Familiar  spectre. 

On  that  (to  me)  momentous  day 
You  dwelt  amid  the  city's  clatter, 
A  few  doors  west  of  old  Broadway; 
The  street — no  matter. 

But  while  you  have  forgot  the  debt, 
And  him  who  called  in  line  of  duty, 
He  never,  never  shall  forget 

Your  wondrous  beauty. 

You  were  too  fair  for  mortal  speech, — 
Enchanting,  positively  rippin'; 
You  were  some  dream,  and  quelque  peach, 
And  beaucoup  pippin. 


Your  "fight  with  Time"  had  not  begun, 
Nor  any  reason  to  promote  it; 
No  beauty  battles  to  be  won. 
Beauty?     You  wrote  it! 

"A  bill?"  you  murmured  in  distress, 
"A  bill?"  (I  still  can  hear  you  say  it.) 
"A  bill  from  Mr.  Fiske?     Oh,  yes     .     .     . 
I'll  call  and  pay  it." 

And  he,  the  thrice-requited  kid, 
That  such  a  goddess  should  address  him, 
Could  only  blush  and  paw  his  lid, 
And  stammer,  "Yes'm!" 

Eheu!     It  seems  a  cycle  since, 
But  still  the  nerve  of  memory  tingles. 
And  here  you're  writing  Beauty  Hints, 
And  I  these  jingles. 


33 


DORNROSCHEN 

IN  THE  great  hall  of  Castle  Innocence, 
Hedged  round  with  thorns  of  maiden  doubts  and 

fears, — 

Within,  without,  a  silence  grave,  intense, — 
Her  soul  lies  sleeping  through  the  rose-leaf  years. 

Hedged  round  with  thorns  of  maiden  doubts  and 

fears; 

And  all  save  one  the  thither  path  shall  miss. 
Her  soul  lies  sleeping  through  the  rose-leaf  years, 
Waiting  the  Prince  and  his  awakening  kiss. 

And  all  save  one  the  thither  path  shall  miss; 
For  one  alone  may  thread  the  thorn  defence. 
Waiting  the  Prince  and  his  awakening  kiss, 
A  hush  broods  over  Castle  Innocence. 

For  one  alone  may  thread  the  thorn  defence, 
Care  free,  heart  free,  and  singing  on  his  way. 
A  hush  broods  over  Castle  Innocence 
One  comes  to  wake; — but  when — ah,  who  can  say! 

Care  free,  heart  free,  and  singing  on  his  way, 
One  comes  all  thorns  of  Fear  and  Doubt  to  dare. 
One  comes  to  wake !     But  when?     Ah,  who  can  say 
The  hour  his  light  feet  press  the  castle  stair? 


34 


One  comes  all  thorns  of  Fear  and  Doubt  to  dare! 
Thorns  with  his  coming  into  roses  bloom. 
The  hour  his  light  feet  press  the  castle  stair 
The  warders  of  the  castle  hall  give  room. 

Thorns  with  his  coming  into  roses  bloom; 
For  him  the  flowers  of  Trust  and  Faith  unfold. 
The  warders  of  the  castle  hall  give  room 
Before  the  young  Prince  of  the  Heart  of  Gold. 

For  him  the  flowers  of  Trust  and  Faith  unfold; 
Till  then  the  thorns  of  maiden  doubts  and  fears. 
Before  the  young  Prince  of  the  Heart  of  Gold 
Her  rose-soul  slumbers  through  the  tranquil  years. 

Till  then  the  thorns  of  maiden  doubts  and  fears. 
Within,  without,  a  silence  grave,  intense. 
Her  rose-soul  slumbers  through  the  tranquil  years 
In  the  great  hall  of  Castle  Innocence. 


35 


"FAREWELL!" 

(Evoked  by  Calverley's  "Forever.") 

"T^AREWELL!"     Another  gloomy  word 
*     As  ever  into  language  crept. 
'Tis  often  written,  never  heard 
Except 

In  playhouse.     Ere  the  hero  flits 
(In  handcuffs)  from  our  pitying  view, 
"Farewell!"  he  murmurs,  then  exits 
R.  U. 

"Farewell!"  is  much  too  sighful  for 
An  age  that  has  not  time  to  sigh. 
We  say,  "I'll  see  you  later,"  or 
"Good-bye!" 

"Fare  well"  meant  long  ago,  before 

It  crept  tear-spattered  into  song, 
"Safe  voyage!"     "Pleasant  journey!"  or 
"So  long!" 

But  gone  its  cheery,  old-time  ring: 
The  poets  made  it  rime  with  knell. 
Joined,  it  became  a  dismal  thing — 
"Farewell!" 

"Farewell!"     Into  the  lover's  soul 
You  see  fate  plunge  the  cruel  iron. 
All  poets  use  it.     It's  the  whole 
Of  Byron. 


"I  only  feel — farewell!"  said  he; 
And  always  tearful  was  the  telling. 
Lord  Byron  was  eternally 
Farewelling. 

"Farewell!"     A  dismal  word,  'tis  true. 
(And  why  not  tell  the  truth  about  it?) 
But  what  on  earth  would  poets  do 
Without  it! 


37 


REFORM    IN   OUR  TOWN 

PERE  was  a  man  in  Our  Town 
And  Jimson  was  his  name, 
Who  cried,  "Our  civic  government 

Is  honeycombed  with  shame." 
He  called  us  neighbors  in  and  said, 

"By  Graft  we're  overrun. 
Let's  have  a  general  cleaning  up, 
As  other  towns  have  done." 

The  citizens  of  Our  Town 

Responded  to  the  call; 
Beneath  the  banner  of  Reform 

We  gathered  one  and  all. 
We  sent  away  for  men  expert 

In  hunting  civic  sin, 
To  ask  these  practised  gentlemen 

Just  how  we  should  begin. 

The  experts  came  to  Our  Town 

And  told  us  how  'twas  done. 
"Begin  with  Gas  and  Traction, 

And  half  your  fight  is  won. 
Begin  with  Gas  and  Traction; 

The  rest  will  follow  soon." 
We  looked  at  one  another 

And  hummed  a  different  tune, 


Said  Smith,  "Saloons  in  Our  Town 

Are  palaces  of  shame." 
Said  Jones,  "Police  corruption 

Has  hurt  the  town's  fair  name." 
Said  Brown,  "Our  lawless  children 

Pitch  pennies  as  they  please." 
Now  would  it  not  be  wiser 

To  start  Reform  with  these? 

The  men  who  came  to  Our  Town 

Replied,  "No  haste  with  these; 
Begin  with  Gas — or  Water — 

The  roots  of  the  disease." 
We  looked  at  one  another 

And  hemmed  and  hawed  a  bit; 
Enthusiasm  faded  then 

From  every  single  cit. 

The  men  who  came  to  Our  Town 

Expressed  a  mild  surprise, 
Then  they  too  at  each  other 

Looked  "with  a  wild  surmise." 
Jimson  had  stock  in  Traction, 

And  Jones  had  stock  in  Gas, 
And  Smith  and  Brown  in  this  and  that, 

So — nothing  came  to  pass. 


39 


The  profligates  of  Our  Town 

Pitch  pennies  as  of  yore; 
Police  corruption  flourishes 

As  rankly  as  before, 
Still  are  our  gilded  ginmills 

Foul  palaces  of  shame. 
Reform  is  just  as  distant 

As  when  the  wise  men  came. 


40 


WHEN  THE  SIRUP'S  ON  THE  FLAPJACK 

WHEN  the  sirup's  on  the  flapjack  and  the  coffee's 
in  the  pot; 
When  the  fly  is  in  the  butter — where  he'd  rather  be 

than  not; 
When  the  cloth  is  on  the  table,  and  the  plates  are 

on  the  cloth; 
When  the  salt  is  in  the  shaker  and  the  chicken's  in 

the  broth; 
When  the  cream  is  in  the  pitcher  and  the  pitcher's 

on  the  tray, 
And  the  tray  is  on  the  sideboard  when  it  isn't  on 

the  way; 
When  the  rind  is  on  the  bacon  and  likewise  upon 

the  cheese, 
Then  I  somehow  feel  inspired  to  do  a  string  of 

rimes  like  these. 


BREAD   PUDDYNGE 

WHEN  good  King  Arthur  ruled  our  land 
He  was  a  goodly  king, 
And  his  idea  of  what  to  eat 
Was  a  good  bag  puddynge. 

The  bag  puddynge  he  had  in  mind 
Was  thickly  strewn  with  plums, 

With  alternating  lumps  of  fat 
As  big  as  my  two  thumbs. 

"My  love,"  quoth  he  to  Guinevere, 
"We  have  a  joust  to-day — 
Sir  Launce  is  here,  Sir  Tris,  Sir  Gal, 
And  all  the  brave  array. 

"Put  everything  across  to-night 

In  guise  of  goodly  fare, 
And  cook  us  up  a  bag  puddynge 
That  will  y-curl  our  hair." 

"I'll  curl  your  hair,"  said  Guinevere, 
"As  tight  as  tight  can  be; 
I'll  cook  you  up  a  bag  puddynge 
From  my  new  recipee." 

"Pitch  in  and  eat,  my  merry  men!" 
That  night  the  King  did  say; 

"But  save  a  little  room — a  bag 
Puddynge  is  on  the  way. 


42 


"Ho!  here  it  comes!  Now,  by  my  sword, 

A  famous  feast  'twill  be. 
Queen  Guinevere  hath  cooked  it,  Launce, 
From  her  own  recipee." 

"Odslife!"  cried  Launce,  "if  there  is  aught 

I  love  'tis  this  same  thing." 
And  he  and  all  the  knights  did  fall 
Upon  that  bag  puddynge. 

One  taste,  and  every  holy  knight 

Sat  speechless  for  a  space, 
While  disappointment  and  disgust 

Were  writ  in  every  face. 

"Odsbodikins!"  Sir  Tristram  cried, 
"In  all  my  days,  by  Jing! 
I  ne'er  did  taste  so  flat  a  mess 
As  this  here  bag  puddynge." 

"Odswhiskers,  Arthur!"  cried  Sir  Launce, 
Whose  license  knew  no  bounds, 

"I  would  to  Godde  I  had  this  stuff 
To  poultice  up  my  wounds." 

King  Arthur  spat  his  mouthful  out, 

And  sent  for  Guinevere. 
"What  is  this  frightful  mess?"  he  roared. 
"Is  this  a  joke,  my  dear?" 


43 


"Oh,  ain't  it  good?"  asked  Guinevere, 

Her  face  a  rosy  red. 
"I  thought  'twould  make  an  awful  hit: 

/  made  it  out  of  bread!" 

When  good  King  Arthur  ruled  our  land 

He  was  a  goodly  king, 
And  only  once  in  all  his  reign 

Was  made  a  Bread  Puddynge. 


44 


MUSCA   DOMESTICA 

BABY  bye,  here's  a  fly, 
We  will  watch  him,  you  and  I; 
Lest  he  fall  in  Baby's  mouth, 
Bringing  germs  from  north  and  south. 
In  the  world  of  things  a-wing 
There  is  not  a  nastier  thing 
Than  this  pesky  little  fly; — 
So  we'll  watch  him,  you  and  I. 

See  him  crawl  up  the  wall, 
And  he'll  never,  never  fall; 
Save  that,  poisoned,  he  may  drop 
In  the  soup  or  on  the  chop. 
Let  us  coax  the  cunning  brute 
To  the  tempting  Tanglefoot, 
Or  invite  his  thirsty  soul 
To  the  poison-paper  bowl. 

I  believe  with  six  such  legs 
You  or  I  could  walk  on  eggs; 
But  he'd  rather  crawl  on  meat 
With  his  microbe-laden  feet. 
Eggs  would  hardly  do  as  well — 
He  could  not  get  through  the  shell; 
Better  far,  to  spread  disease, 
Vegetables,  meat,  or  cheese. 


45 


There  he  goes,  on  his  toes, 
Tickling,  tickling  Baby's  nose. 
Heaven  knows  where  he  has  been, 
And  what  filth  he's  wallowed  in. 
Drat  the  nasty  little  wretch! 
He's  the  deuce  and  all  to  ketch. 
Ah!     He's  settled  on  the  wall. 
Now  the  thunderbolt  shall  fall! 

Baby  bye,  see  that  fly? 

We  will  swat  him,  you  and  I. 


46 


THE   PASSIONATE   PROFESSOR 


"But  bending  low,  I  whisper  only  this: 
'Love,  it  is  night.'  " 

— HARRY  THURSTON  PECK. 


LOVE,  it  is  night.     The  orb  of  day 
Has  gone  to  hit  the  cosmic  hay. 
Nocturnal  voices  now  we  hear. 
Come,  heart's  delight,  the  hour  is  near 
When  Passion's  mandate  we  obey. 

I  would  not,  sweet,  the  fact  convey 
In  any  crude  and  obvious  way: 
I  merely  whisper  in  your  ear — 

"Love,  it  is  night!" 

Candor  compels  me,  pet,  to  say 
That  years  my  fading  charms  betray. 

Tho'  Love  be  blind,  I  grant  it's  clear 

I'm  no  Apollo  Belvedere. 
But  after  dark  all  cats  are  gray. 

Love,  it  is  night! 


47 


A   BALLADE  OF   WOOL-GATHERING 

Now  is  my  season  of  unrest, 
Now  calls  the  forest,  day  and  night; 
And  by  its  pleasant  spell  obsessed, 
My  wits  go  soaring  like  a  kite. 
Forgive  me  if  I  be  not  bright, 
And  pardon  if  I  seem  distrait; 
Wood-fancies  put  my  wits  to  flight; — 
The  woods  are  but  a  week  away. 

Palleth  upon  my  soul  the  jest, 
Falleth  upon  my  pen  a  blight. 
The  daily  task  has  lost  its  zest, 
And  everything  is  flat  and  trite. 
There's  nothing  humorous  in  sight; 
Don't  mind  if  I  am  dull  to-day. 
For  every  column  is  a  fight 
When  woods  are  but  a  week  away. 

Woods  in  the  robes  of  summer  dressed — 
In  greens  and  grays  and  browns  bedight! 
A  journey  on  a  river's  breast, 
Beneath  the  wedded  blue-and-white!     .     . 
This  end  the  Voyage  of  Delight 
Waits,  in  a  little  wood-bound  bay, 
A  bark  canoe,  all  trim  and  tight; — 
The  woods  are  but  a  week  away! 


48 


L' Envoi 

Dear  Reader,  there  is  much  to  write; 
I've  many  weighty  things  to  say. 
But  who  can  write  when  woods  invite, 
And  woods  are  but  a  week  away! 


49 


TO  THE  SUN 

(Variations  on  a  theme  by  Gilbert.) 

SHINE  on,  Old  Top,  shine  on! 
Across  the  realms  of  space 

Shine  on! 

What  though  I'm  in  a  sorry  case? 
What  though  my  collar  is  a  wreck, 
And  hangs  a  rag  about  my  neck? 
What  though  at  food  I  can  but  peck? 
Never  you  mind! 
Shine  on! 

Shine  on,  Old  Top,  shine  on! 
Through  leagues  of  lifeless  air 

Shine  on! 

It's  true  I've  no  more  shirts  to  wear, 
My  underwear  is  soaked,  'tis  true, 
My  gullet  is  a  redhot  flue — 
But  don't  let  that  unsettle  you! 
Never  you  mind! 

Shine  on!  [//  shines  on.] 


WHEN   IT   IS   HOT 

"And  Nebuchadnezzar  commanded  the  most  mighty  men 
that  were  in  his  army  to  bind  Shadrach,  Meshach,  and  Abed- 
nego,  and  to  cast  them  into  the  burning  fiery  furnace." 

/CONSIDER  Mr.  Shadrach, 
^  Of  fiery  furnace  fame: 
He  didn't  bleat  about  the  heat 

Or  fuss  about  the  flame. 
He  didn't  stew  and  worry, 

And  get  his  nerves  in  kinks, 
Nor  fill  his  skin  with  limes  and  gin 

And  other  "cooling  drinks." 

Consider  Mr.  Meshach, 

Who  felt  the  furnace  too: 
He  let  it  sizz  nor  queried  "Is 

It  hot  enough  for  you?" 
He  didn't  mop  his  forehead, 

And  hunt  a  shady  spot; 
Nor  did  he  say,  "Gee!  what  a  day! 

Believe  me,  it's  some  hot." 

Consider,  too,  Abed-nego, 

Who  shared  his  comrades'  plight: 
He  didn't  shake  his  coat  and  make 

Himself  a  holy  sight. 
He  didn't  wear  suspenders 

Without  a  coat  and  vest; 
Nor  did  he  scowl  and  snort  and  howl, 

And  make  himself  a  pest. 


Consider,  friends,  this  trio — 

How  little  fuss  they  made. 
They  didn't  curse  when  it  was  worse 

Than  ninety  in  the  shade. 
They  moved  about  serenely 

Within  the  furnace  bright, 
And  soon  forgot  that  it  was  hot, 

With  "no  relief  in  sight." 


THE  SIMPLE,   HEARTFELT  LAY 

LIVES  of  poets  oft  remind  us 
Not  to  wait  too  long  for  Time, 
But,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Obvious  facts  embalmed  in  rime. 

Poems  that  we  have  to  ponder 

Turn  us  prematurely  gray; 
We  are  infinitely  fonder 

Of  the  simple,  heartfelt  lay. 

Whitman's  Leaves  of  Grass  is  odious, 
Browning's  'Ring  and  Book  a  bore. 

Bleat,  O  bards,  in  lines  melodious, — 
Bleat  that  two  and  two  is  four! 

Must  we  hunt  for  hidden  treasures? 

Nay!     We  want  the  heartfelt  straight. 
Minstrel,  sing,  in  obvious  measures — 

Sing  that  four  and  four  is  eight! 

Whitman  leads  to  easy  slumbers, 
Browning  makes  us  hunt  the  hay. 

Pipe,  ye  potes,  in  simplest  numbers, 
Anything  ye  have  to  say. 


53 


Q  •  HORATI VS  •  FLACCUS 
B-  L-  T-SVO-SALVTEM 

HAEC-CARMINA-MI-VETVLE-QVAE 
ME-  IVVENE-  PARVM  •  DILIGENTER 
COMPOSITA-EXCIDERVNT-SENEX 
REFICIENDA-LIMANDAQVE  IAM 
DVD VM  •  EXISTI MO  •  QVOD  N VNC 
DEMVM-FACTVM-EST-MIRARIS 
FORTASSE  •  C  VR  •  ANGLI CE  •  RE 
SCRIPSERIM  •  DESINES-  MIRARI 
CVM-DIXEROSINE-FVCOOPOR 
TERE  •  POETA  •  ETI  AM  •  VI VVS  •  NON 
SOLVM-ACCOMMODEM-MEA-OPERA 
AD  •  NORM  AM  •  RECENTIORVM  •  TEM 
PORVM  •  SED  •  ETI  AM  •  VTAR  •  NEMPE 
EA-LINGVA-QVAE-MAIORE-RE 
SILIENDI-VT-ITA-DICAM-VI 
PRAEDITA-VIDEATVR-VELIM 
SINT-NOVI-VERSVS-TIBI-MVL 
TO  •  I VCVNDIORES  •  QVAM  •  PRIS 
CA-EXEMPLA 

SCRIBEBAM  •  HELNGON 
XVII -KAL- DEC 


54 


A   NOTE  FROM    MR.   FLACCUS 

(Concerning  the  verses  that  follow.) 
Dear  B.  L.  T.: 

You  know  my  "pomes."  Well,  old  man,  I 
was  pretty  young  when  I  got  them  out  of  my  sys 
tem,  and  they  seem  rather  raw  to  me  now — I'm 
getting  along,  you  know;  so  I've  been  thinking 
that  I'd  do  'em  over  again,  file  'em  down,  as  we 
used  to  say.  Enclosed  is  the  result  of  my  labors. 

I  presume  you  are  wondering  why  I  have 
done  them  into  United  States;  but  you  know  per 
fectly  well  that  a  poet  as  much  alive  as  I  am  to-day 
must  not  only  keep  up  with  the  procession,  but 
choose  a  thought-vehicle  that  has  good  springs 
to  it — "beaucoup  resiliency,"  I  s'pose  you'd  call  it. 

I  hope  you  will  like  these  new  lines  of  mine 
better  than  their  prototypes. 

Yours  regardfully, 

Q.  H.  F. 

Relngon,  November  15. 


55 


TO  ARISTIUS  FUSCUS 

"Integer  vitce  scelerisque  purus." 

Fuscus,  old  scout,  if  a  guy's  on  the  level 
That's  all  the  arsenal  he'll  have  to  tote; 
Up  to  St.  Peter  or  down  to  the  Devil, 
No  need  to  carry  a  gun  in  his  coat. 

Prowling  around,  as  you  know  is  my  habit, 
I  met  a  wolf  in  the  forest,  and  he 

Beat  it  for  Wolfville  and  ran  like  a  rabbit. 
(He  was  some  wolf,  too,  receive  it  from  me.) 

Where  I  may  happen  to  camp  is  no  matter,— 
Paris,  Chicago,  Ostend  or  St.  Joe, — 

Like  the  old  dame  in  the  nursery  patter 
I  shall  make  music  wherever  I  go. 

Drop  me  in  Dawson  or  chuck  me  in  Cadiz, 
Dump  me  in  Kansas  or  plant  me  in  Rome, — 

I  shall  keep  on  making  love  to  the  ladies: 
Where  there's  a  skirt  is  my  notion  of  home. 


II 

DUETTO 

"Donee  grains  eram." 

HORACE: 

WHAT  time  my  Lydia  owned  me  lord 
No  Persian  king  had  much  on  Horace; 
And  when  you  blew  my  bed  and  board 
I  was  some  sad,  believe  me,  Mawruss. 

LYDIA: 
What  time  you  loved  no  other  She, 

Before  this  Chloe  person  signed  you, 
I  flourished  like  a  green  bay  tree; 

Now  I'm  the  Girl  You  Left  Behind  You. 

HORACE  : 
This  Chloe  dame  that  takes  my  eye 

Has  so  peculiar  an  allurance 
I  would  not  hesitate  to  die 

If  she  could  cop  my  life  insurance. 

LYDIA: 
Well,  as  for  that,  I  know  a  gent 

With  whom  it's  some  delight  to  dally. 
With  me  he  makes  an  awful  dent; 

I'd  perish  once  or  twice  for  Cally. 

HORACE: 
Suppose  our  former  love  should  go 

Into  a  new  de  luxe  edition? 
Suppose  I  tie  a  can  to  Chlo, 

And  let  you  play  your  old  position? 


57 


LYDIA: 

Why,  then,  you  cork,  you  butterfly, 

You  sweet,  philandering,  perjured  villain, 

With  you  I'd  love  to  live  and  die, 
Tho'  Cally  boy  were  twice  as  killin'. 


Ill 

TO   PYRRHA 

"Quis  multa  gracilis." 

WHAT  young  tin  whistle  gent, 
Bedaubed  with  barber's  scent, 
What  cheapskate  waits  on  you 
To  woo, 

O  Pyrrha? 

For  whom  the  puff  and  rat 
And  transformation  that 

You  bought  a  year  ago 

Or  so, 

O  Pyrrha? 

Peeved?     Not  a  bit.     Not  I 
I'm  sorry  for  the  guy. 

He  draws  a  lovely  lime 

This  time, 

O  Pyrrha! 

I've  dipped.     The  wet  ain't  fine. 
Hung  on  the  votive  line 

My  duds.     The  gods  can  see 

I'm  free. 

Eh,  Pyrrha! 


59 


IV 

TO  ARISTIUS  FUSCUS 

"My  sweetly- smiling,  sweetly-speaking  Lalage." 

Fuscus,  take  a  tip  from  me: 
This  here  job's  no  bed  of  roses, 
Not  the  cinch  it  seems  to  be, 
Not  the  pipe  that  one  supposes. 
What  care  I,  tho',  if  I  may 
Lallygag  with  Lalage. 

Every  day  there's  ink  to  spill, 

Tho'  I  may  not  feel  like  working. 
Every  day  a  hole  to  fill; 

One  must  plug  it — there's  no  shirking. 
Oh,  that  I  might  all  the  day 
Lallygag  with  Lalage! 

People  say,  "Gee!  what  a  snap, 

Turning  paragraphs  and  verses. 
He's  the  band  on  Fortune's  cap, 
Gets  a  barrel  of  ses-terces." 

Let  them  gossip,  while  I  play 
Hide  and  seek  with  Lalage. 

People  hand  me  out  advice: 

"Hod,  you're  doing  too  much  drivel. 
Write  us  something  sweet  and  nice. 
Stow  the  satire,  chop  the  frivol." 
But  we  have  the  rent  to  pay, 
Lalage;  eh,  Lalage? 

60 


Ladies  shy  the  saving  sense 

Write  me  patronizing  letters; 
And  there  are  the  writing  gents, 
Always  out  to  knock  their  betters. 
What  cares  Flaccus  if  he  may 
Lallygag  with  Lalage! 

No,  old  top,  the  writing  lay's 

Not  a  bed  of  sweet  geranium. 

Brickbats  mingle  with  bouquets 

Shied  at  my  devoted  cranium. 

Does  it  peeve  yours  truly?     Nay. 
Nothing  can — with  Lalage. 

Paste  this,  Fuscus,  in  your  hat: 

Not  a  pesky  thing  can  peeve  me. 
Take  it,  too,  from  Horace  flat, 
She's  some  gal,  is  Lai,  believe  me. 

So  I  coin  this  word  to-day, 
"Lallygag" — from  Lalage. 


61 


V 
TO  SYLVIA 

WERE  I  on  the  Latin  lay, 
Were  I  turning  Odes  to-day, 
You  would  draw  a  gem  from  me, 
Little  maid  of  mystery! 

In  an  Ode  I'd  love  to  spout  you; 
I  am  simply  bug  about  you. 
That's  the  way! — the  fairest  peach 
Is  the  one  that's  out  of  reach. 

I  have  toasted  in  my  time 
Many  a  peach  (and  many  a  lime), 
All  of  them,  I  must  confess, 
Lacking  your  elusiveness. 

Lalage,  my  well  known  flame, 
Was  considerable  dame; 
Likewise  Lydia  and  Phyllis, 
Chloe,  Pyrrha,  Amaryllis. 

Syl,  if  you  had  lived  when  they  did 
You'd  have  had  those  damsels  faded. 
(That  will  give  you,  girl,  some  notion 
Of  your  Flaccus's  devotion.) 

Yep.     If  I  were  doing  Odes 
In  my  quondam  favorite  modes, 
With  your  image  to  qui-vive  me 
I'd  tear  off  some  Ode,  believe  me! 


62 


A   BALLAD   OF   MISFITS 

"Chacun  son  metier: 
Les  vaches  seront  bien  gardtes." 

—  LA  FONTAINE. 


\Y7ITH  skiU  f°r  doing  this  or  that 
VV    The  Lord  each  man  endows. 
Some  men  are  best  for  pushing  pens, 

And  some  for  pushing  plows; 
And  oh,  the  many    many  more 
That  should  be  tending  cows! 
Chacun  son  metier: 
Les  vaches  bien  gar  dees. 

The  ivory-headed  serving  maid 

Who  poses  as  a  "cook," 
She  hath  a  very  bovine  brain, 

She  hath  a  bovine  look. 
Oh,  prithee,  lead  her  to  the  kine, 
Oh,  prithee   get  the  hook! 
Chacun  son  metier: 
Les  vaches  bien  gardees. 

The  papering-and-painting  gents 

Whose  work  is  never  done, 
Who  mess  around  your  house  until 

You  pine  to  pull  a  gun, 
Who  take  three  mortal  days  to  do 
What  should  be  done  in  one;  — 
Chacun  son  metier: 
Les  vaches  bien  gardees. 


The  pestilential  "pianiste," 
The  screechy  singer  too, 
The  writer  of  the  stupid  book 

And  of  the  dull  review, 
The  actor  who  is  greatest  when 
He  takes  his  exit  cue; — 
Chacun  son  metier: 
Les  vaches  bien  gardees. 

If  every  one  were  set  to  do 

The  task  for  which  he's  fit, 
The  writer  of  these  trifling  lines 

Might  also  have  to  quit. 
At  tending  cows  the  undersigned 
Might  make  an  awful  hit. 
Chacun  son  metier: 
Les  vaches  bien  gardees. 


AN  ORIENTAL  APOLOGY 

WHEN  the  hour  was  come  Prince  Chun  arose, 
And  balanced  a  shoestring  on  his  nose. 
"From  this  some  notion  you  will  get," 
Said  he,  "of  China's  deep  regret." 

Now  balancing  upon  his  ear 
A  stein  of  foaming  lager  beer, 
"This  attitude,"  said  he,  "reveals 
How  very  sorry  China  feels." 

Then  spinning  top-like  on  his  cue, 
"I  can't  begin  to  tell  to  you 
The  deep  remorse  we  suffer  for 
The  death  of  your  Ambassador." 

Next,  placing  on  his  cue  a  plate, 
He  said,  as  it  'gan  to  gyrate: 
"Nothing  that's  happened  in  his  reign 
Has  caused  my  Emperor  so  much  pain." 

Upon  his  back  he  did  declare, 
While  juggling  five  balls  in  the  air, 
"This  attitude — the  humblest  yet — 
Expresses  personal  regret." 

Last,  spreading  out  a  deck  of  cards — 
"Accept  my  Emperor's  regards. 
As  our  intentions  were  well  meant, 
Pray  overlook  the  incident," 


THE   DAY   OF   THE   COMET 
(May  18,  igio.} 

HERE  it  is — Eighteenth  of  May! 
Dawneth  now  the  fatal  day 
When  we  take  the  awful  veil 
Of  the  fearsome  comet's  tail. 
Vale,  Earth! 

What  will  happen,  heaven  knows; 
We  can't  even  guess,  suppose, 
Hazard,  speculate,  surmise, 
Hint,  conjecture,  theorize, 
Or  divine. 

Will  we  merely  drill  a  hole 
Through  the  trailing  aureole? 
Or  will  the  prediction  dire 
Of  a  world  destroyed  by  fire 
Be  fulfilled? 

Shall  we  crook  our  knees  and  pray, 
Counting  this  the  Judgment  Day? 
Or  preserve  a  cosmic  ca'm, 
Caring  not  a  cosmic  dam 
What  may  come? 

There's  the  rub.     If  we  but  knew 
We  should  know  just  what  to  do. 
Yes  is  just  as  good  as  No 
To  all  questions.     Here  we  go! — 
Hang  on  tight! 

66 


THE   MORNING   AFTER 
(May  ip,  1910.) 

HERE  we  are,  friends,  whole  and  hale 
In  or  through  the  comet's  tail; 
And  as  far  as  we  can  say, 
Matters  are  about  as  they 
Were  before. 

Everything  is  much  the  same 
As  before  the  comet  came. 
Grasses  grow  and  waters  run — 
Nothing  new  beneath  the  sun — 
Same  old  sphere. 

Life  is  drab  or  life  is  gay, 
Thorny  path  or  primrose  way; 
All  is  common,  all  is  strange; 
'Down  the  ringing  grooves  of  change" 
Spins  the  world. 

Change  but  of  a  humdrum  kind. 
What  we  vaguely  had  in  mind 
Was  some  new  sensation  or 
Thrill  we  never  felt  before. 
Vain  desire! 

Nothing's  added  to  the  stock: 
Same  old  shiver,  same  old  shock. 
Round  about  the  sun  we'll  go 
In  the  same  old  status  quo. 
Awful  bore! 


A  BALLADE  OF  IRRESOLUTION 

ISOLDE,  in  the  story  old, 
When  Ireland's  coast  the  vessel  nears, 
And  Death  were  fairer  to  behold, 
To  Tristan  gives  "the  cup  that  clears." 
Straight  to  their  fate  the  helmsman  steers: 
Unknowing,  each  the  potion  sips.     .     .     . 
Comes  echoing  through  the  ghostly  years 
"Give  me  the  philtre  of  thy  lips!" 

Ah,  that  like  Tristan  I  were  bold! 
My  soul  into  the  future  peers, 
And  passion  flags,  and  heart  grows  cold, 
And  sicklied  resolution  veers. 
I  see  the  Sister  of  the  Shears 
Who  sits  fore'er  and  snips,  and  snips.  .  . 
Still  falls  upon  my  inward  ears, 
"Give  me  the  philtre  of  thy  lips!" 

Hero  of  lovers,  largely  soul'd! 
Imagination  thee  enspheres 
With  song-enchanted  wood  and  wold 
And  casements  fronting  magic  meres. 
Tristan,  thy  large  example  cheers 
The  faint  of  heart;  thy  story  grips! — 
My  soul  again  that  echo  hears, 
"Give  me  the  philtre  of  thy  lips!" 


68 


L' Envoi 

Sweet  sorceress,  resolve  my  fears! 
He  stakes  all  who  Elysium  clips. 
What  tho'  the  fruit  be  tares  and  tears  !- 
Give  me  the  philtre  of  thy  lips! 


69 


TO   WHAT   BASE   USES! 

"  Mrs.  O now  takes   her   daily  dip  at  5  in  the  after 
noon,  instead  of  in  the  morning." 

— NEWPORT  ITEM. 


T^H 


is  is  the  forest  primeval. 


This  the  spruce  with  the  glorious  plume 
That  grew  in  the  forest  primeval. 

This  is  the  lumberman  big  and  browned 
Who  felled  the  spruce  tree  to  the  ground 
That  grew  in  the  forest  primeval. 

This  is  the  man  with  the  paper  mill 
Who  bought  the  pulp  that  paid  the  bill 
Of  the  husky  lumberjack  who  chopped 
The  lofty  spruce  and  its  branches  lopped 
That  grew  in  the  forest  primeval. 

This  is  the  publisher  bland  and  rich 
Who  bought  the  roll  of  paper  which 
Was  made  by  the  man  with  the  paper  mill 
Who  bought  the  pulp  that  paid  the  bill 
Of  the  lumberjack  with  the  murderous  ax 
Who  felled  the  spruce  with  lusty  hacks 
That  grew  in  the  forest  primeval. 

This  is  the  youth  with  the  writing  tool 
Who  does  the  daily  Newport  drool 
That  helps  to  make  the  publisher  rich 
Who  ordered  the  stock  of  paper  which 


70 


Was  made  by  the  man  with  the  paper  mill 
Who  bought  the  pulp  that  paid  the  bill 
Of  the  husky  Swede  in  the  Joseph's  coat 
Who  swung  his  ax  and  the  tall  spruce  smote 
That  grew  in  the  forest  primeval. 

This  is  the  lady  far  from  slim 

Who  changed  the  hour  of  her  daily  swim 

And  excited  the  youth  with  the  writing  tool 

Who  does  the  Newport  drivel  and  drool 

For  the  prosperous  publisher  bland  and  fat 

Who  ordered  the  virgin  paper  that 

Was  made  by  the  man  with  the  paper  mill 

Who  bought  the  pulp  that  paid  the  bill 

Of  Ole  Oleson  the  husky  Swede 

Who  did  a  foul  and  darksome  deed 

When  he  swung  his  ax  with  vigor  and  vim 

And  smote  the  spruce  tree  tall  and  trim 

That  grew  in  the  forest  primeval. 

This  is  the  shop  girl  Mag  or  Liz 
Who  daily  devours  what  news  there  is 
Concerning  the  lady  far  from  slim 
Who  changed  the  time  of  her  ocean  swim 
And  excited  the  youth  with  the  writing  tool 
Who  does  the  daily  Newport  drool 
For  the  pursy  publisher  bland  and  rich 
Who  bought  the  innocent  paper  which 
Was  made  by  the  man  with  the  paper  mill 
Who  bought  the  pulp  that  paid  the  bill 


Of  the  Swedish  jack  who  slew  the  spruce 

That  came  to  a  most  ignoble  use — 

The  lofty  spruce  with  the  glorious  plume- 

The  giant  spruce  that  used  to  loom 

In  the  heart  of  the  forest  primeval. 


72 


HOW  THEY  MIGHT  HAVE  BROUGHT  THE 
GOOD   NEWS 

WE  sprang  to  the  motor,  I,  Joris  and  Dirck. 
I  snapped  on  my   goggles  and   got  to  my 

work. 

"Hi,  there!"  yelled  the  cop  in  the  helmet  of  white; 
"Let  her  flicker!"  said  Joris,  and  into  the  night, 
With  a  sneer  at  the  speed  laws,  we  hurtled  hell 
bent 
To  carry  to  Aix  the  good  tidings  from  Ghent. 

The  going  was  poor,  we  expected  delay, 

And  the  usual  livestock  obstructed  the  way. 

At  Boom  we  ran  over  a  large  yellow  dog, 

At  Dtiffeld  a  chicken,  at  Mecheln  a  hog; 

What  else,  we'd  no  time  to  slow  down  to  inquire; 

At  Aerschot,  confound  it!  we  blew  out  a  tire. 

I  jacked  up  the  axle  and  ripped  off  the  shoe, 
And  snapped  on  an  extra  that  promised  to  do. 
"All  aboard!"  I  exclaimed  as   I  cranked  the  ma 
chine, 

But  something  was  wrong  with  the  curst  gasoline. 
"By  Hasselt!"   Dirck  groaned,    "We'll   be  half  a 

day  late; 

We   ought   to   have   sent   the   good    tidings   by 
freight." 

False  prophet!     I  tinkered  a  minute  or  two 
And  again  we  were  off  like  "a  bolt  from  the  blue." 


73 


We  ate  up  the  hills  at  a  forty-mile  clip, 
And  skidded  the  turns  like  the  snap  of  a  whip, 
Till  we  dashed  into  Aix  and  were  pinched  by  a  cop 
For  failing  to  slow  when  commanded  to  stop. 

'Now,  wouldn't  that  frost  you!"  said  Joris,  but  we 
When  we  told  the  glad  tidings  were  instantly  free. 
The  Mayor  himself  paid  the  ten  dollars'  fine, 
And  blew  us  to  dinner  with  six  kinds  of  wine, 
Which  (the  burgesses  voted,  by  common  consent- 
Was  no  more  than  their  due  that  brought  good 
news  from  Ghent. 


74 


THE   DINOSAUR 

BEHOLD  the  mighty  Dinosaur, 
Famous  in  prehistoric  lore, 
Not  only  for  his  weight  and  strength 
But  for  his  intellectual  length. 
You  will  observe  by  these  remains 
The  creature  had  two  sets  of  brains — 
One  in  his  head  (the  usual  place), 
The  other  at  his  spinal  base. 
Thus  he  could  reason  a  priori 
As  well  as  a  posteriori. 
No  problem  bothered  him  a  bit: 
He  made  both  head  and  tail  of  it. 
So  wise  he  was,  so  wise  and  solemn, 
Each  thought  filled  just  a  spinal  column. 
If  one  brain  found  the  pressure  strong 
It  passed  a  few  ideas  along; 
If  something  slipped  his  forward  mind 
'Twas  rescued  by  the  one  behind; 
And  if  in  error  he  was  caught 
He  had  a  saving  afterthought. 
As  he  thought  twice  before  he  spoke 
He  had  no  judgments  to  revoke; 
For  he  could  think,  without  congestion, 
Upon  both  sides  of  every  question. 

Oh,  gaze  upon  this  model  beast, 
Defunct  ten  million  years  at  least. 


75 


A   BALLADE   OF   CAP   AND   BELLS 

WHEN  as  a  dewdrop  joy  enspheres 
This  pleasant  planet,  arched  with  blue, 
When  every  prospect  charms  and  cheers, 
And  all  the  world  is  fair  to  view — 
Who  does  not  envy  (have  not  you?) 
That  mortal,  by  Thalia  kissed, 
Who  plies,  in  plumes  of  cockatoo, 
The  blithesome  trade  of  humorist? 

But  when  the  wind  of  fortune  veers, 
And  blue-white  skies  turn  leaden  hue, 
When  every  pleasant  prospect  blears 
And  all  the  weary  world's  askew — 
Who  then  would  envy  (if  he  knew) 
Jack  Point  the  jester,  glum  and  trist; 
Or  ply,  tho'  first  of  all  the  crew, 
The  dismal  trade  of  humorist? 

Ah,  jocund  trifles  writ  in  tears, 
And  merry  stanzas  steeped  in  rue! 
When  all  the  world  in  drab  appears 
The  fool  must  still  in  motley  woo. 
Tho'  bitter  be  the  cud  he  chew, 
Still  must  he  grind  his  foolish  grist; 
Still  must  he  ply,  the  long  day  through, 
The  tragic  trade  of  humorist! 


L' Envoi 

Lady  of  Tears,  what  pains  perdue 
The  heart  and  soul  of  him  may  twist 
Who  doth  in  cap  and  bells  pursue 
The  glad  sad  trade  of  humorist! 


77 


GENTLE   DOCTOR   BROWN 

IT  WAS  a  gentle  sawbones   and    his  name  was 
Doctor  Brown. 

His  auto  was  the  terror  of  a  small  suburban  town. 
His  practice,  quite  amazing  for  so  trivial  a  place, 
Consisted  of  the  victims  of  his  homicidal  pace. 

So  constant   was  his  practice  and  so  high    his 

motor's  gear 
That  at  knocking  down  pedestrians  he  never  had 

a  peer; 
But  it  must,  in  simple  justice,  be  as  truly  written 

down 
That   no    man  could   be   more  thoughtful   than 

gentle  Doctor  Brown. 

Whatever  was  the  errand  on  which  Doctor  Brown 

was  bent 
He'd  stop  to  patch  a  victim  up  and  never  charged 

a  cent. 
He'd  always  pause,  whoever  'twas  he  happened 

to  run  down: 
A   humane   and   a   thoughtful    man   was    gentle 

Doctor  Brown. 

"How  fortunate,"   he  would  observe,  "how  fortu 
nate  'twas  I 

That  knocked  you  galley-west  and  heard  your 
wild  and  wailing  cry. 


There  are  some   heartless  wretches  who  would 

leave  you  here  alone, 
Without  a  sympathetic  ear  to  catch  your  dying 


"Such  callousness,"  said  Doctor  Brown,  "I  cannot 
comprehend; 

To  fathom  such  indifference  I  simply  don't  pre 
tend. 

One  ought  to  do  his  duty,  and  I  never  am  remiss. 

A  simple  word  of  thanks  is  all  I  ask.  Here,  swal 
low  this!" 

Then,  reaching  in  the  tonneau,  he'd  unpack  his 
little  kit, 

And  perform  an  operation  that  was  workmanlike 

and  fit. 

''You  may  survive,"  said  Doctor  Brown;  "it's 
happened  once  or  twice. 

If  not,  you've  had  the  benefit  of  competent  ad 
vice." 

Oh,  if  all  our  motormaniacs  were  equally  humane, 

How  little  bitterness  there'd  be,  or  reason  to  com 
plain! 

How  different  our  point  of  view  if  we  were  ridden 
down 

By  lunatics  as  thoughtful  as  gentle  Doctor  Brown! 


79 


IN  THE   GALLERY 

WEIRDER  than  the  pictures 
Are  the  folks  who  come 
With  their  owlish  strictures — 
Telling  why  they're  bum. 
Of  all  lines  of  babble 
This  one  has  the  call: 
Picture  gallery  gabble 
Is  the  best  of  all. 

Literary  fluffle 
Never,  never  cloys; 
Much  has  Mrs.  Guffle 
Added  to  my  joys. 
For  that  chitter-chatter 
I  delight  to  fall. 
But  the  picture  patter 
Is  the  best  of  all. 

With  the  music  highbrows 
I  delight  to  chat, 
Elevating  my  brows 
Over  this  and  that. 
Music  tittle-tattle 
Never  fails  to  thrall. 
But  the  picture  prattle 
Is  the  best  of  all. 

Sociologic  rub-dub 
I  delight  to  hear; 

80 


Philosophic  flub-dub 
Titillates  my  ear. 
Lovelier  yet  the  spiffle 
In  the  picture  hall; 
For  the  picture  piffle 
Is  the  best  of  all. 

Weirder  than  the  pictures 
Are  the  folks  who  stand 
Passing  owlish  strictures, 
Catalogue  in  hand. 
Hear  the  bunk  they  babble 
Under  every  wall. 
Yes.     The  gallery  gabble 
Is  the  best  of  all. 


81 


ALWAYS 

"II  y  a  tons  les  jours  quelque  dam  chose." 

— ABELARD  TO  HELOISE. 

WHEN  Mrs.  Mead  was  full  of  groans, 
When  symptoms  of  all  sorts  assailed  her, 
She  sent  for  bluff  old  Doctor  Jones, 

And  told  him  all  the  things  that  ailed  her. 
It  took  her  nearly  half  the  day, 

And  when  she  finished  out  the  string — 
"Ye-e-s,  Mrs.  Mead,"  drawled  Doctor  J., 
"There's  always  some  dam  thing." 

I  like  the  line.     It's  worth  a  ton 

Of  optimistic  commonplaces. 
It's  tonic,  it  refreshes  one, 

It  cheers,  it  stimulates,  it  braces. 
It  summarizes  things  so  well; 

It  has  the  philosophic  ring. 
Has  Kant  or  Hegel  more  to  tell? 
"There's  always  some  dam  thing." 

The  dean  of  all  the  cheer-up  school 

Adjures  sad  hearts  to  cease  repining, 
And  intimates  that,  as  a  rule, 

The  sun  behind  the  cloud  is  shining. 

"Into  each  life "   You  know  the  rest; 

No  need  to  finish  out  the  string. 

Longfellow  boiled  might  be  expressed, 

"There's  always  some  dam  thing." 


82 


When  things  go  wrong  I  do  not  read 
The  cheer-up  poets,  great  or  lesser. 

To  soothe  my  soul  I  do  not  need 
The  Neo-Thought  of  Mr.  Dresser. 

Sufficient  for  each  working  day, 
With  all  the  worries  it  may  bring, 

That  helpful  line  by  Doctor  J., 
"There's  always  some  dam  thing," 


THE   MODERN    MARINER 

A  DRY  sheet  and  a  lazy  sea, 
And  a  wind  so  far  from  fast 
It  barely  floats  the  owner's  flag 
That  flutters  at  the  mast — 
That  flutters  at  the  mast,  my  boys; 

So  while  the  sky  is  free 
Of  cloud  we'll  take  a  yachtsman's  chance 
And  venture  out  to  sea. 

The  aneroid  has  dropped  a  tenth! 

Back,  back  across  the  bar 
To  a  harbor  snug,  and  a  long  cold  drink, 

And  a  big  fat  black  cigar — 
A  big  fat  black  cigar,  my  boys; 

While,  on  an  even  keel, 
The  Swedish  chef  out-chefs  himself 

In  getting  up  a  meal. 

Give  me  a  soft  and  gentle  wind, 

A  fleckless  azure  sky; 
I  care  not  for  your  "snoring  breeze" 

And  dinners  heaving  high — 
And  dinners  heaving  high,  my  boys, 

Make  no  great  hit  with  me; 
So  when  the  breeze  begins  to  snore 

We'll  not  put  out  to  sea. 


84 


There's  laughter  in  yon  beach  hotel, 

And  summer  girls  a  crowd; 
And  hark  the  music,  mariners, 

The  band  is  piping  loud! 
The  band  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

Bright  eyes  are  flashing  free. 
Come,  fly  the  owner's-absent  flag 

And  join  the  revelry, 


A   BALLADE   OF   THE   CANNERY 

WHAT  of  the  phrases,  long  decayed, 
Of  paleologic  pedigree, 
Musty,  moldy,  frazzled,  and  frayed — 
A  doddering,  dusty  company? 
What  shall  be  done  with  them?  say  we; 
And  east  and  west  the  people  bawl, 
Dump  them  into  the  Cannery! — 
Into  the  brine  go  one  and  all. 

"Grilled"  and  "lauded"  and  "scored"  and  "flayed," 
"Common  or  garden  variety," 
"Wave  of  crime"  and  "reform  crusade," 
"Along  these  lines"  and  "it  seems  to  me," 
"Noted  savant,"  "I  fail  to  see," 

The  "groaning  board"  of  the  "banquet  hall,"- 

Masonjar  'em  in  "ghoulish  glee"- 

Into  the  brine  go  one  and  all. 

"Succulent  bivalves,"  "trusty  blade," 
"Last  analysis,"  "practical-ly," 
"Lone  highwayman"  and  "fusillade," 
"Millionaire  broker  and  clubman,"  "gee!" 
"In  reply  to  yours,"  "can  such  things  be?" 
"Sounded  the  keynote"  or  "trumpet  call," — 

Can  'em,  pickle  'em,  one,  two,  three — 

Into  the  .brine  go  one  and  all. 


86 


U  Envoi 

Under  the  spreading  chestnut  tree 
Stands  the  Cannery,  all  too  small. 
The  Canner  a  briny  man  is  he, 
And  into  the  brine  go  one  and  all. 


PANDEAN   PIPEDREAMS 

(Induced  by  smoking  "Pagan  Pickings.") 
I 


/T^HIS  is  something  that  I  heard, 

As  the  fluting  of  a  bird, 
On  a  certain  drowsy  day, 
When  my  pipe  was  under  way. 
I  was  weary  of  the  town, 
And  the  going  up  and  down; 
Sick  of  streets  and  sick  of  noise,  — 
And  I  pined  for  Pagan  joys. 

Daphne,  here  it  is  July! 

Just  the  month,  my  love,  to  fly 

To  a  sylvan  solitude 

In  the  green  and  ancient  wood. 

We  will  trip  it  as  we  go 

On  the  neo-Pagan  toe, 

Sunny  days  and  starry  nights, 

Savoring  the  wild  delights 

Of  a  turbulent  desire 

That  may  set  the  wood  on  fire. 

We  will  play  at  hunt-the-fawn, 
In  the  neo-Dorian  dawn. 
You  will  scamper  through  the  brake 
And  I'll  follow  in  your  wake  — 


88 


As  the  young  Apollo  ran 
In  the  piping  days  of  Pan. 
You'll  escape  me,  without  doubt, 
For  I'm  just  a  trifle  stout; 
But,  when  I  have  lagged  behind, 
Waiting  for  my  second  wynde, 
From  some  pretty  hiding-place 
Will  emerge  your  laughing  face; 
I  shall  glimpse  your  eyes  of  blue, 
Hear  your  merry  "Peek-a-boo!" 

What  to  wear?     The  Pagan  plan 
Contemplates  a  coat  of  tan; 
But  I  fear  we  shall  require 
Just  a  trifle  more  attire. 
Bushes  scratch  and  brambles  sting; 
Insect  myriads  are  a-wing; — 
Heavens,  how  mosquitoes  swarm 
When  the  woodland  air  is  warm. 
(MEM:  To  take,  when  we  elope, 
Tanglewood  Mosquito  Dope.") 

Do  you  like  the  picture,  dear? 

Have  you  aught  of  doubt  or  fear? 

Have  you  any  criticism 

Of  my  neo-Paganism? 

If  not,  dearie,  let  us  fly 

To  that  passion-ripening  sky, 

Where  our  souls  may  have  their  fling, 

And  our  every  care  take  wing. 


89 


So  the  bird  song  fluted  by, 
Like  a  vagrant  summer  sigh — 
Came,  and  passed,  and  was  no  more; 
And  my  pleasant  dream  was  o'er. 
For  arose  the  wraith  of  Doubt; 
And  I  knew  my  pipe  was  out. 


90 


II 


is  something  that  befell 
When  my  pipe  was  drawing  well- 
Something,  rather,  that  I  heard 
As  the  fluting  of  a  bird. 

Daphne,  come  and  live  with  me 
In  a  Pagan  greenery. 
Life  will  then  be  naught  but  play, 
One  long  Pagan  holiday. 
We  will  play  at  hide  and  seek 
In  the  alders  by  the  creek; 
Sport  amid  the  cascade's  smother, 
Splashing  water  at  each  other;  — 
Every  moment  pleasure  wooing, 
Every  moment  something  doing. 
If  we  talk,  we'll  talk  of  Love: 
All  its  arguments  we'll  prove. 
Such  a  mental  rest  you'll  find. 
Leave  your  intellect  behind. 

Night  will  come,  (for  come  it  will, 
'Spite  the  fluting  on  the  hill,) 
And  we'll  pitch  a  cozy  camp 
Where  it  isn't  quite  so  damp. 
While  you  dry  your  hair  and  laze 
By  the  campfire's  violet  blaze, 
I  will  rob  a  balsam  tree 
To  construct  a  house  for  thee. 
What  so  dear  as  to  be  wooed 
In  a  sylvan  solitude? 


What  so  sweet  as  Pagan  vows 
Whispered  in  a  house  of  boughs? 
Pagan  love's  without  alloy. 
Pagan  kisses  never  cloy. 
Arms  that  cling  in  Pagan  fashion 
Never  tire.     A  Pagan  passion 
Is  the  only  kind  I  know 
That  outlives  a  winter's  snow. 
Daphne,  Daphne,  let  us  fly! 
You're  a  Pagan — so  am  I. 

So  the  fluting  on  the  hill 
Passed  and  died,  and  all  was  still. 
So  the  Pagan  Pickings  died, 
And  I  laid  the  pipe  aside. 


92 


THE   LAUNDRY   OF   LIFE 

(An  Adventure  in  Sentiment.) 

LIFE  is  a  laundry  in  which  we 
Are  ironed  out,  or  soon  or  late. 
Who  has  not  known  the  irony 
Of  fate? 

We  enter  it  when  we  are  born, 
Our  colors  bright.     Full  soon  they  fade. 
We  leave  it  "done  up,"  old  and  worn, 
And  frayed; 

Frayed  round  the  edges,  worn  and  thin- 
Life  is  a  rough  old  linen  slinger. 
Who  has  not  lost  a  button  in 
Life's  wringer? 

With  other  linen  we  are  tubbed, 
With  other  linen  often  tangled; 
In  open  court  we  then  are  scrubbed, 
And  mangled. 

Some  take  a  gloss  of  happiness 
The  hardest  wear  can  not  diminish; 
Others,  alas!  get  a  "domes- 
Tic  finish." 


93 


H1 


WISDOM    IN   A   CAPSULE 

"//  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be?" 

— THE  SHEPHERD'S  RESOLUTION. 

[ERE  we  have  in  this  truism 
Mr.  James's  pragmatism. 
Test  your  troubles  day  by  day 
With  it,  and  they  fly  away. 
Is  the  weather  boiling  hot, 
Hot  enough  to  boil  a  pot — 
If  it  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  hot  it  be? 

Take  a  pudding  made  of  bread; 

Much  against  it  has  been  said; 

But  it  does  not  lack  defense — 

Many  say  it  is  immense. 

Be  it  damned  or  be  it  blessed, 

Let  us  make  the  acid  test — 

If  it  be  not  so  to  me, 

What  care  I  how  good  it  be? 

So  with  every  blooming  thing 
That  has  power  to  soothe  or  sting; 
Ships  or  shoes  or  sealing  wax, 
Carrots,  comets,  carpet  tacks. 
Every  philosophic  need 
Covered  by  this  capsule  creed: 
If  it  be  not  so  to  me, 

What  care  I  howj,g°°d  lit  be? 


bad 

94 


THE   LAND   OF   RAINBOWS-END 

YOUNG  Faintheart  lay  on  a  wayside  bank, 
Full  prey  to  doubts  and  fears, 
When  he  did  espy  come  trudging  by 

A  Pilgrim  bent  with  years. 
His  back  was  bowed  and  his  step  was  slow, 

But  his  faith  no  years  could  bend, 
As  he  eagerly  pressed  to  the  rose-lit  west 
And  the  Land  of  Rainbow's-End. 

"It's  ho,  for  a  pack!"  sang  the  Pilgrim  gray, 

"And  a  stout  oak  staff  for  friend, 
And  it's  over  the  hills  and  far  away 
To  the  Land  of  Rainbow' s-End!" 

Thou'rt  old,"  young  Faintheart  cried,  "thou'rt  old, 

And  there's  many  a  league  to  go; 
And  still  thou  seekest  the  pot  of  gold 

At  the  farther  end  of  the  bow." 
'I  am  old,  I  am  old,"  said  the  Pilgrim  gray, 

"But  ever  my  way  I'll  wend 
To  the  rose-lit  hills  of  the  dying  day 

And  the  Land  of  Rainbow's-End." 

'Come,  rest  thee,  rest  thee  by  my  side; 

Give  o'er  thy  doomsday  quest." 
'Have  done,  have  done!"  the  Pilgrim  cried: 
"The  light  wanes  in  the  west. 


95 


The  road  is  long,  but  I  shall  not  tire; 

I  will  lay  my  bones,  God  send, 
By  the  beautiful  City  of  Heart's  Desire, 

In  the  Land  of  Rainbow's-End." 

'Then  it's  ho,  for  a  pack!"  sang  the  Pilgrim  gray, 

"And  a  stout  oak  staff  for  friend, 
And  it's  over  the  hills  and  far  away 
To  the  Land  of  Rainbow's-End.11 


96 


A   BALLADE   OF   A   BORE 

WHEN  the  weather  is  warm  and  the  glass  run 
ning  high 

And  the  odors  of  Araby  tincture  the  air; 
When  the  sun  is  aloft  in  a  white  and  blue  sky, 
And  the  morrow  holds  promise  of  falling  as  fair; — 
In  spring  or  in  summer  I'm  free  to  declare, 
And  the  same  I  am  equally  free  to  maintain, 
One  person  has  power  my  peace  to  impair: 
The  man  who  tells  limericks  gives  me  a  pain. 

When  the  foliage  flushes  and  summer  is  by, 
And  russet  and  red  are  the  popular  wear; 
When  the  song  of  the  woodland  is  changed  to  a  sigh 
And  the  horn  of  the  hunter  is  heard  by  the  hare;- 
In  the  season  of  autumn  I'm  free  to  declare, 
And  my  language  is  lucid  and  simple  and  plain, 
One  person's  acquaintance  I  freely  forswear: 
The  man  with  the  limerick  gives  me  a  pain. 

When   the  landscape  is  iced  and  the  snow  feathers 

fly, 
When  the  fields  are  all  bald  and  the  trees  are  all 

bare, 

And  the  prospect  which  nature  presents  to  the  eye 
Is  chiefly  distinguished  by  glitter  and  glare; — 


97 


In  the  season  of  winter  I'm  free  to  declare 
That  the  limerick  person  is  flat  and  inane. 
This  person,  I  think,  we  could  easily  spare: 
The  man  who  tells  limericks  gives  me  a  pain. 

I?  Envoi 

From  New  Year  to  Christmas  I'm  free  to  declare 
That,  for  ways  that  are  dull  and  for  verse  that  is 

vain, 

One  bore  is  peculiar — and  not  at  all  rare: 
The  man  with  the  limerick  gives  me  a  pain. 


98 


THE  POLE 

(Tune:  "Carcassonne.") 

I'M  AN  old  man,  I'm  eighty-three, 
I  seldom  get  away; 
My  work,  it  keeps  me  close  at  home — 

I  have  no  time  for  play. 
If  it  were  not  for  the  journey  back, 

That  so  fatigues  a  soul, 
I'd  like  to  take  a  little  trip — 
I  never  have  seen  the  Pole. 

'Tis  said  that  in  that  favored  place 

There  is  no  heat  or  drouth; 
And  that,  whichever  way  you  turn, 

You're  looking  south-by-south. 
Some  say  there  is  a  flagstaff  there, 

Some  say  there  is  a  hole. 
Think  of  the  years  that  I  have  lived 

And  never  have  seen  the  Pole! 

The  parson  a  hundred  times  is  right — 

We  ought  to  stay  at  home. 
I'm  an  old  man,  I'm  eighty-three, 

I  have  no  call  to  roam. 
And  yet  if  I  could  somehow  find 

The  time — God  bless  my  soul! — 
I  think  that  I  would  die  content 

If  I  only  could  see  the  Pole! 


99 


My  brother  has  seen  Baraboo, 

If  so  he  speak  the  truth; 
My  wife  and  son  they  both  have  been 

As  far  as  to  Duluth; 
My  cousin  cruised  to  Eastport,  Maine, 

On  a  ship  that  carried  coal; 
I've  been  as  far  as  Mackinac — 

But  I  never  have  seen  the  Pole! 


100 


SH-H-H-H! 

"Mr.  Mabie  is  now  reading  the  summer  books." 
— THE  LADIES'  HOME  JOURNAL. 

WHAT  shall  we  buy  for  a  summer's  day? 
What  is  good  reading  and  what  is  not? 
Mabie  will  tell  us — we  wait  his  say; 
For  Mabie  alone  can  know  what's  what. 
Meanwhile  the  world  is  as  still  as  death; 
Mute  inquiry  is  in  men's  looks; 
Everybody  is  holding  his  breath — 
Mabie  is  reading  the  summer  books. 

The  suns  are  at  pause  in  the  cosmic  race; 
The  mills  of  the  gods  have  ceased  to  grind; 
The  only  sound  that  is  heard  in  space 
Is  the  rhythmic  clicking  of  Mabie's  mind. 
Elsewhere  silence,  or  near  or  far — 
Chattering  Pleiads  or  babbling  brooks; 
For  the  whisper  has  passed  from  star  to  star: 
"Mabie  is  reading  the  summer  books." 


101 


THE   VANISHED   FAY 

PLL  me,  whither  do  they  go, 
All  the  Little  Ones  we  know? 
They  "grow  up"  before  our  eyes, 
And  the  fairy  spirit  flies. 
Time  the  Piper,  pied  and  gay — 
Does  he  lure  them  all  away? 
Do  they  follow  after  him, 
Over  the  horizon's  brim? 

Daughter's  growing  fair  to  see, 
Slim  and  straight  as  popple  tree 
Still  a  child  in  heart  and  head, 
But — the  fairy  spirit's  fled. 
As  a  fay  at  break  of  day, 
Little  One  has  flown  away, 
On  the  stroke  of  fairy  bell — 
When  and  whither,  who  can  tell? 

Still  her  childish  fancies  weave 
In  the  Land  of  Make  Believe; 
And  her  love  of  magic  lore 
Is  as  avid  as  before. 
Dollies  big  and  dollies  small 
Still  are  at  her  beck  and  call. 
But  for  all  this  pleasant  play, 
Little  One  has  gone  away. 


102 


Whither,  whither  have  they  flown, 
All  the  fays  we  all  have  known? 
To  what  "faery  lands  forlorn" 
On  the  sound  of  elfin  horn? 
As  she  were  a  woodland  sprite, 
Little  One  has  vanished  quite. 
Waves  the  wand  of  Oberon: 
Cock  has  crowed — the  fay  is  gone! 


103 


AUTUMN   REVERY 

WHEN  the  leaves  are  falling  crimson 
And  the  worm  is  off  its  feed, 
When  the  rag  weed  and  the  jimson 

Have  agreed  to  go  to  seed, 
When  the  air  in  forest  bowers 

Has  a  tang  like  Rhenish  wine, 
And  to  breathe  it  for  two  hours 

Makes  you  feel  you'd  like  to  dine, 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  pumpkin 

And  the  corn  is  in  the  shock, 
And  the  cheek  of  country  bumpkin 

City  faces  seems  to  mock, — 
When  you  come  across  a  ditty 

(Like  this  one)  of  Autumn's  charm, 
Then  it's  pleasant  in  the  city, 

Where  they  keep  the  houses  warm. 


104 


THE   RECOIL 

I  MET  a  friend  of  lofty  brow — 
As  lofty  as  the  laws  allow. 
I  said  to  him,  "You'll  know,  I'm  sure — 
What's  doing  now  in  litrychoor?" 
Said  he:  "I  hate  the  very  name; 
I'm  weary  of  the  blooming  game. 
I  read,  whenever  I  have  time, 
Something  by  Phillips  Oppenheim." 

"Cheer  up!"  said  I.     "What's  new  in  Art? — 
You  drift  around  the  picture  mart. 
What  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Blum? — 
Some  say  he's  great,  some  say  he's  bum." 

"I'm  strong  for  Blum,"  my  friend  replied; 

"His  pictures  are  so  queer  and  pied. 
I  wouldn't  change  them  if  I  could; 
I'd  rather  have  things  queer  than  good." 

I  spoke  of  this,  I  spoke  of  that, 
But  everything  was  stale  and  flat. 
Said  I,  "You  once  adored  the  chaste, 
You  used  to  have  such  perfect  taste." 
"Good  taste,"  he  wailed,  "brings  but  distress, 
Tis  an  affliction,  nothing  less; 
While  those  whose  taste  is  punk  and  vile 
Are  happy  all  the  blessed  while." 


105 


"Oh,  take  a  brace,  old  man!"  said  I. 

"Let  me  prescribe  a  nip  of  rye, 
And  then  we'll  go  to  see  a  play; 
I've  two  for  Barry  more  to-day." 

"No,  no,"  he  groaned;  "'twould  be  a  bore, 
With  all  respect  to  Barry  more." 
Said  I:  "Then  whither  shall  we  go?" 
Said  he:  "A  moving  picture  show." 


106 


THE   CORONATION 

Lang  Syne. 

TWAS  a  holy  mystery 
In  the  days  of  chivalry. 
More  than  pageant  was  the  Rite 
In  the  sight  of  clod  and  knight. 
Sword  and  Scepter,  Orb  and  Rod, 
Faith  in  self  and  faith  in  God; 
Oaths  of  Homage  fiercely  flung, 
Faith  in  heart  and  faith  in  tongue; — 
Gone  the  things  that  meaning  gave 
"With  the  old  world  to  the  grave." 

1911. 

Knightly  faith  was  born  to  fade: 
Now  the  Rite  is  masquerade. 
Now  a  cockney  paladin 
Winds  a  penny  horn  of  tin. 
Where  in  reverence  heads  were  bowed 
Surges  now  a  careless  crowd; 
"Muddied  oafs"  and  "flanneled  fools" 
Jostle  "Yanks"  with  camping  stools; — 

Gone  the  things  that  meaning  gave 
"With  the  old  world  to  the  grave." 


107 


SONS   OF   BATTLE 

LET  us  have  peace,  and  Thy  blessing, 
Lord  of  the  Wind  and  the  Rain, 
When  we  shall  cease  from  oppressing, 

From  all  injustice  refrain; 
When  we  hate  falsehood  and  spurn  it; 

When  we  are  men  among  men. 
Let  us  have  peace  when  we  earn  it — 
Never  an  hour  till  then. 

Let  us  have  rest  in  Thy  garden, 

Lord  of  the  Rock  and  the  Green, 
When  there  is  nothing  to  pardon, 

When  we  are  whitened  and  clean. 
Purge  us  of  skulking  and  treason, 

Help  us  to  put  them  away. 
We  shall  have  rest  in  Thy  season; 

Till  then  the  heat  of  the  fray. 

Let  us  have  peace  in  Thy  pleasure, 

Lord  of  the  Cloud  and  the  Sun; 
Grant  to  us  aeons  of  leisure 

When  the  long  battle  is  done. 
Now  we  have  only  begun  it; 

Stead  us! — we  ask  nothing  more. 
Peace — rest — but  not  till  we've  won  it— 

Never  an  hour  before. 


108 


MY   LADY   NEW   YORK 

O  SIREN  of  tresses  peroxide, 
And  heart  that  is  hard  as  a  flint, 
Blue  orbs  of  complacency  ox-eyed, 

That  light  at  the  mark  of  the  mint, 
Ears  only  for  jingle  of  joy  bells, 

A  conscience  as  light  as  a  cork — 
You  are  wedded  to  follies  and  foibles, 
My  Lady  New  York. 

True,  you  have  (not  enough,  tho',  to  hurt  you) 

Your  moods  and  your  manners  austere; 
You  have  visions  and  vapors  of  virtue, 

And  "reform"  for  a  time  has  your  ear; 
But  of  chaste  Puritanic  embraces 

You  soon  have  enough  and  to  spare, 
And  then  you  kick  over  the  traces, 

And  virtue  forswear. 

So  go  it,  milady!     Foot  fleetly 

The  paths  that  are  primrose  and  gay; 
Abandon  your  fancy  completely 

To  follies  and  fads  of  the  day. 
'Reform"  is  a  something  that  throttles 

The  joys  of  the  pace  that's  intense — 
Smash  hearts,  reputations,  and  bottles, 

And  ding  the  expense! 


109 


BALLADE  OF  THE  PIPESMOKE  CARRY 

Ancient  Wood  is  white  and  still, 
Over  the  pines  the  bleak  wind  blows, 
Voiceless  the  brook  and  mute  the  rill, 
Silence  too  where  the  river  flows. 
Still  I  catch  the  scent  of  the  rose 
And  hear  the  white-throat's  roundelay, 
Footing  the  trail  that  Memory  knows, 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 

I  have  only  a  pipe  to  fill: 
Weaving,  wreathing  rings  disclose 
A  trail  that  flings  straight  up  the  hill, 
Straight  as  an  arrow's  flight.     For  those 
Who  fare  by  night  the  pole  star  glows 
Above  the  mountain  top.     By  day 
A  blasted  pine  the  pathway  shows 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 

The  Ancient  Wood  is  white  and  chill, 
But  what  know  I  of  wintry  woes? 
The  Pipesmoke  Trail  is  mine  at  will — 
Naught  may  hinder  and  none  oppose. 
Such  the  power  the  pipe  bestows, 
When  the  wilderness  calls  I  may 
Tramping  go,  as  I  smoke  and  doze, 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 


no 


L' Envoi 

Deep  in  the  canyons  lie  the  snows: 
They  shall  vanish  if  I  but  say — 
If  my  fancy  a-roving  goes 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 


in 


POST-VACATIONAL 

You  have  heard  that  mildewed  story, 
That  tradition  horned  and  hoary, 
That  it  wearies  one  to  roam, 

Past  a  doubt; 

That  one  vainly  on  vacation 
Tries  to  find  recuperation, 

Till  he  hunts  his  happy  home 
Tuckered  out. 

That  abroad  there  is  no  comfort, 

That  a  man  must  journey  home  for  't — 

You  have  heard  that  whiskered  wheeze, 

Have  you  not? 
'Tis  a  commonplace  to  cavil 
At  the  "luxuries  of  travel," 
For  in  travel  lack  of  ease 
Is  your  lot. 

You  have  heard  that  gag  historic; 
It  was  often  sprung  by  Yorick; 
It's  as  old  as  Noah's  ark 

And  its  crew. 

It's  the  commonest  (at  basis) 
Of  all  common  commonplaces; — 
So  I  merely  would  remark 
That — it's  true. 


112 


THE   BARDS   WE   QUOTE 

VVTHENE'ER  I  quote  I  seldom  take 
VV    From  bards  whom  angel  hosts  environ; 
But  usually  some  damned  rake 
Like  Byron. 

Of  Whittier  I  think  a  lot, 
My  fancy  to  him  often  turns; 
But  when  I  quote  'tis  some  such  sot 
As  Burns. 

I'm  very  fond  of  Bryant,  too, 
He  brings  to  me  the  woodland  smelly; 
Why  should  I  quote  that  "village  roo," 
P.  Shelley? 

I  think  Felicia  Hemans  great, 
I  dote  upon  Jean  Ingelow; 
Yet  quote  from  such  a  reprobate 
As  Poe. 

To  quote  from  drunkard  or  from  rake 
Is  not  a  proper  thing  to  do. 
I  find  the  habit  hard  to  break, 
Don't  you? 


THE   PERSISTENT   POET 

'I  REMEMBER,  I  remember" — 
*     Something  special?     Not  a  bit. 
But,  you  see,  this  is  November, 
And  Remember  rimes  with  it. 


114 


HENCE  THESE   RIMES 

Po'  my  verse  is  exact, 
Tho'  it  flawlessly  flows, 
As  a  matter  of  fact 

I  would  rather  write  prose. 

While  my  harp  is  in  tune, 
And  I  sing  like  the  birds, 

I  would  really  as  soon 

Write  in  straightaway  words. 

Tho'  my  songs  are  as  sweet 

As  Apollo  e'er  piped, 
And  my  lines  are  as  neat 

As  have  ever  been  typed, 

I  would  rather  write  prose — 

I  prefer  it  to  rime; 
It's  less  hard  to  compose, 

And  it  takes  me  less  time. 

"Well,  if  that  be  the  case," 
You  are  moved  to  inquire, 

"Why  appropriate  space 
For  extolling  your  lyre?" 

I  can  only  reply 

That  this  form  I  elect 
'Cause  it  pleases  the  eye, 

And  I  like  the  effect. 


THE   OLD   ROLLER   TOWEL 

How  dear  to  this  heart  is  the  old  roller  towel 
Which  fond  recollection  presents  to  my  view. 
It  hung  like  a  pall  on  the  wall  of  the  washroom, 

And  gathered  the  grime  of  the  linotype  crew. 
The  sink  and  the  soap  and  the  lye  that  stood  by  it 

Remain;  but  the  towel  is  gone  past  recall. 
O  temporal     Also,  O  mores!     Sic  transit 

The  time-honored  towel  that  creaked  on  the  wall. 
The  grimy  old  towel,  the  slimy  old  towel, 
The  tacky  old  towel  that  hung  on  the  wall. 

Now  hangs  in  the  washroom  a  huge  roll  of  paper — 

The  old  printer's  towel  we'll  never  see  more. 
The  new  (see  directions)  is  "used  like  a  blotter," 

And  crumpled  and  scattered  in  wads  on  the  floor. 
And  often,  when  drying  my  hands  in  this  fashion, 

The  tears  of  remembrance  will  gather  and  fall, 
And  I  sigh  (though  I'm  not  what  you'd  call  senti 
mental) 

For  theclassicold  towel  that  propped  up  the  wall. 
The  sainted  old  towel,  the  tainted  old  towel, 
The  gooey  old  towel  that  hung  on  the  wall. 


116 


UP   CULTURE'S   HILL 

(The  confession  of  a  club  lady.) 

THE  path  up  Culture's  Hill  is  steep, 
And  weary  is  the  way, 
With  very  little  time  for  sleep 
And  none  at  all  for  play. 

She  that  this  toilsome  task  essays 

Must  never  bat  an  eye, 
But  keep  her  firm,  unwavering  gaze 

Forever  fixed  on  high. 

For  should  she  ever  careless  grow, 

And  let  her  glances  stray 
Down  to  the  shallow  vale  below, 

Where  Pleasure's  Court  holds  sway — 

Lured  by  the  thrice  forbidden  fruit, 

She'd  lose  her  equipoise, 
And  like  a  wayward  Pleiad  shoot 

Down  to  forbidden  joys. 

I've  been  but  short  time  on  the  road, 

My  courage  still  is  strong; 
Yet  often  have  I  felt  the  goad 

That  hurries  me  along. 

I've  fallen  over  Maeterlinck, 
And  bumped  myself  to  tears, 

Burne-Jones's  pictures  made  me  blink, 
And  Wagner  hurts  my  ears. 

117 


I've  stumbled  over  Ibsen  humps 
And  over  Rembrandt  rocks, 

I've  got  some  fierce  Debussy  bumps. 
Some  awful  Nietsche  knocks. 

I'm  wearied  by  the  ceaseless  quest, 
I'm  wayworn  and  footsore. 

I've  Culture  till  I  cannot  rest — 
Yet  still  I  climb  for  more. 

But  oh,  when  all  is  done  and  said, 

Upon  some  manly  breast 
I'd  like  to  lay  my  tired  head 

And  take  a  good  long  rest, 


118 


THE   PASSIONAL   NOTE 

"  The  erotic  motive  is  almost  entirely  absent  from  Amer 
ican  poetry.  Even  our  younger  American  poets  are  more 
Profoundly  interested  in  the  why  and  wherefore  of  things 
than  in  the  girdle  of  Helen  or  the  gleaming  limbs  of  'the 
white  implacable  Aphrodite.'  " 

— MR.  SYLVESTER  VIERECK. 

IN  THE  years  of  my  season  erotic, 
When  Eros  was  lord  of  my  days, 
And  I  loved,  with  a  love  idiotic, 

The  Mabels  and  Madges  and  Mays; 
When  a  purple  and  passionate  lyric 

Would  sing  all  the  night  in  my  head, — 
I  yearned,  like  the  young  Mr.  Viereck, 
For  everything  red. 

I  doted  on  poems  of  passion, 

And  put  my  own  pantings  in  rime, 
To  celebrate,  after  a  fashion, 

The  damsels  who  took  up  my  time. 
I  fed  upon  Swinburne,  believe  me, 

I  feasted  on  Byron  and  Burns, 
And  couplets  from  Sappho  would  give  me 

Most  exquisite  turns. 

How  apparent  it  was  that  our  songbirds — 
Our  Emerson,  Lowell,  and  Payne, 

And  Bryant  and  Drake — were  the  wrong  birds 
To  pipe  to  the  passional  strain. 


119 


There  was,  in  a  word,  nothing  doing 
In  all  of  the  rimes  that  they  wrote; 

They  seemed  to  be  always  pursuing 
The  ethical  note. 

What  truth,  I  inquired,  was  so  mighty, 

What  ethical  thing  was  so  rare, 
As  the  limbs  of  the  white  Aphrodite 

Or  a  strand  of  her  heaven-kissed  hair! 
The  girdle  of  red-headed  Helen 

Outweighed  all  the  wherefores  and  whys, 
And  Wisdom  elected  to  dwell  in 

A  pair  of  blue  eyes. 

Now  lyrical  sizzlers  and  scorchers 

Fail  somehow  to  set  me  ablaze; 
No  longer  are  exquisite  tortures 

Provoked  by  these  passionate  lays. 
I've  tinned — and  I  can't  say  I've  missed  'em- 

The  poems  of  passion  and  sin. 
Some  things  one  gets  out  of  one's  system, 

And  other  things  in. 


120 


V EN  VOL 

'A^.0,  little  book"  as  Poet  Southey  said; 

You  might  be  better  and  you  might  be  worse. 
With  just  one  word  of  warning  you  are  sped: 
Remember,  you're  not  Poetry — you're  Verse. 


121 


Index 

Always 82 

Autumn  Revery 104 

Ballad  of  Misfits 63 

Ballade  of  a  Bore 97 

Ballade  of  the  Cannery 86 

Ballade  of  Cap  and  Bells 76 

Ballade  of  Death  and  Time 28 

Ballade  of  Irresolution 68 

Ballade  of  the  Pipesmoke  Carry no 

Ballade  of  Spring's  Unrest 22 

Ballade  of  Wool-Gathering 48 

Bards  We  Quote,  The 113 

Bread  Puddynge 42 

Breakfast  Food  Family,  The 19 

Coronation,  The 107 

Day  of  the  Comet,  The 66 

Dinosaur,  The 75 

Dornroschen 34 

"Farewell" 36 

Gentle  Doctor  Brown 78 

Hence  These  Rimes 115 


123 


Horace:  A  Note  from  Mr.  Flaccus 54 

I.     To  Aristius  Fuscus 56 

II.     Duetto 57 

III.  To  Pyrrha 59 

IV.  To  Aristius  Fuscus 60 

V.     To  Sylvia 62 

How  They  Might  Have  Brought  the  Good 

News 73 

In  the  Gallery 80 

In  the  Lamplight 17 

Kaiser's  Farewell,  The 30 

Land  of  Rainbow's-End,  The 95 

Laundry  of  Life,  The 93 

Lay  of  St.  Ambrose 9 

Miss  Legion 27 

Modern  Mariner,  The 84 

Morning  After,  The 67 

Musca  Domestica 45 

My  Lady  New  York 109 

Old  Roller  Towel,  The 116 

Oriental  Apology,  An 65 

Pandean  Pipedreams 88 

Passional  Note,  The 119 

Passionate  Professor,  The 47 

Persistent  Poet,  The 114 

Pole,  The 99 


124 


Post-Vacational 112 

Recoil,  The 105 

Reform  in  Our  Town 38 

Rime  of  the  Clark  Street  Cable 25 

Sh-h-h-h! ioi 

Simple,  Heartfelt  Lay,  The 53 

Sons  of  Battle 108 

To  a  Tall  Spruce 14 

To  Lillian  Russell 32 

To  the  Sun 50 

To  What  Base  Uses 70 

'Treasure  Island" 21 

Up  Culture's  Hill 117 

Vanished  Fay,  The 102 

When  It  Is  Hot 51 

When  the  Sirup's  on  the  Flapjack 41 

Why? 24 

Wisdom  in  a  Capsule 94 


125 


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